


Once Upon a December

by Iwovepizza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- Historical, Gilded Age, Hate Crimes, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Immigrant Dean, Immigrant Sam, M/M, New York City, Not gonna lie Cas is kind of a sugar daddy, Politician castiel, Poverty, Re-write, Starvation, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-08-17 05:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16510208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwovepizza/pseuds/Iwovepizza
Summary: The Gilded Age is slowly being eclipsed by the Progressive Era, and Castiel Novak, a ward boss at Tammany Hall, is surprised to meet two brothers fresh off the boat from Italy, seeking a new life in America as their dark past haunts them.A certain green-eyed man, who can't speak a word of English, catches Castiel's eye. Perhaps the English lessons the ward boss offers can strengthen their bond?But there are shadows on the horizon as an anti-immigrant feeling begins to brew, and the threat just might be enough to get the boys killed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Once Upon a December](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6308305) by [Iwovepizza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwovepizza/pseuds/Iwovepizza). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): None

**I.**

_“The Gilded Age was an era of rapid economic growth…as American wages were much higher than those in Europe, especially for skilled workers, the period saw an influx of millions of European immigrants…”_

-

 

It was a cool, crisp December morning, the weak light of the newborn sun filtering through the arched windows of Tammany Hall.

Aside from the employees and the few huddled groups chatting and sharing a cigar are two, there was hardly anyone in the building at this hour.

This part of Tammany Hall always boasted a very laid-back atmosphere, the paneled wooden walls and floor smelling of whiskey, tobacco, and leather. Large desks flanked a main path toward the center desk, behind which stretched huge shelves that were used to archive the new arrivals. Secretaries and advisors shuffled about lazily as they did their paperwork, the scratching of fountain pens and the rustle of papers permeating the otherwise silent air.

A hearty laugh would sound here, a click of a lighter there, the click of heels and the drum of books somewhere off to the side. It was peaceful, in a way, like how an addled mind just woken from sleep would be. Of course, things would get more hectic as the day progressed, but as of the moment there was no hustle and bustle to worry about.

“Ya hear that Boss Tweed high tailed it out of office?” one of the men rumbled around a thick cigar, picking the buttons on his coat. “The Progressives became too much for him, managed to catch him red-handed and put him on trial. Michael’s taken his place.”

“The one who used to work with the migrants coming in from Spain and Portugal? That man’s no better than Tweed, and Tweed stole forty-five mil from the city,” his companion scoffed, though he was quickly hushed by the others. “What? It’s true.”

“We’re just lucky he ain’t the only ward boss here.” He gestured with his chin to the main desk, where their boss was working diligently, hunched over an enormous stack of papers. “Hopefully Castiel can hold out against em.”

The politician, Castiel, didn’t seem to notice that his employees were talking about him as his pen scratched away furiously, hastily filling out paperwork that was due in an obscenely short amount of time. Michael was a rival politician, after all, and he harnessed the fact that he was the head honcho to try to get his subordinates to stumble.

Castiel, though, was holding out quite well, his brow furrowed in concentration as ink flowed out of his pen in a delicate, looping cursive.

Smoke trailed from a cigar that dangled from his lips, spiraling and twisting like a ribbon of grey silk, and he puffed on it as he labored. To his employees, this ward boss was known for his unsightly beige overcoat, but to the general public was a die-hard politician who was wholly and undeniably for the people and his clients.

 His honesty was probably the reason why none of the other ward bosses liked him very much, calling him a reclusive introvert who cared about nothing but his work.

All of them were disgustingly pompous, uncaring of whose lives they ruined as they- quite awfully, mind you- helped register and file all of the migrants spilling in from Europe in exchange for votes, and many of them didn’t even have their own platform to stand on; despite considering themselves independent, many of them hid behind the more powerful politicians like Michael, Raphael, and Uriel, matching their every step and supporting whatever they preached.

Their bulging bellies, fancy tailcoats, gold cufflinks, and brass buttons didn’t faze Castiel, and he stubbornly stood his ground whenever they tried to goad him into doing something that was beneath his morals, ultimately cementing his competition between him and every other politician at Tammany Hall.

“Hannah, a drink, if you would?” he asked, and his secretary nodded enthusiastically, placing a glass in front of him.

The hours slipped by, and he continued to work diligently, not really taking much time to glance at the clock and only pausing to light another cigar after his last one burned up.

His personal secretary, Hannah, came often to check up on him and, bless her, bring offerings of alcohol that he accepted graciously. Sure, the extra buzz in his system would make his mind hazy, but it helped take the edge off of the back-breaking paperwork and forms that seemed to have absolutely no end.

He was just about to call it quits, his wrist throbbing incessantly, when the huge doors creaked open. Though the other employees didn’t pay much heed to it, Castiel glanced up.

Thin hands. Sallow cheeks. Haunted eyes.

He rose to his feet at the sight and adjusted his tie, stubbing his cigar in the ashtray and striding over to where two young men, no older than he, stood silently.

The shorter one held a single, small suitcase, one that couldn’t possibly hold all of their possessions, but the man was used to this kind of thing. Their wary eyes widened at his approach, like deer in carriage lights.

“Welcome to America,” Castiel greeted, flashing dazzling white teeth to the shorter of the two. “Fresh off the boat, I see.”

This was politics. He could do politics.

There was a short pause, and the look that the green-eyed man was giving Castiel made him wonder if he’d grown a second head without his knowledge.

“No…speak…l’inglese,” the man finally stammered, looking down as he flushed, a gentle tinge of red in his cheeks and on his neck.

The taller man put a reassuring hand on his companion’s shoulder, and Castiel could only assume that they were brothers.

“We’re…from Italy,” he explained, and although his accent was thick, his words weren’t nearly as jumbled as his brother’s. He took his time, spoke slowly and deliberately. His eyes were the eyes of a very intelligent man.

Castiel knew the basics of Italian, and he managed a hesitant, “Quando siete arrivati?”

“No need,” was the gruff response. The man’s jaw was set, his shoulders squared. “I…can speak English.”

“Very well, but just tell me if you don’t understand,” Castiel stated, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “I can easily switch to your native language if you’d like.”

He didn’t think any of his competitors would’ve offered these men the same courtesy; if they didn’t speak English, they were out of luck, and Castiel wasn’t even sure if some of them even knew the languages of the regions they were in charge of.

“No need,” the taller one insisted stubbornly. “I am not stupid.”

Cracking a smile, Castiel waved them over two the two hardwood chairs in front of his desk, taking his seat across from them.

Castiel had to rifle through the many unfinished credentials and documents to fine what he was looking, sliding a wad of papers in front of the English-speaking brother.

“My name is Castiel Novak, the ward boss for all of the Southeastern European countries, and I welcome you both to New York, New York,” he declared. “Care for a cigar?”

He opened one of his drawers and produced a pack of cigars that served the sole purpose of sharing with clients, who felt more special and at home if they were offered from Castiel’s personal packs. It was a business trick he’d figured out on the job.

“No thank you.” The taller brother waved off the politician’s offering politely.

The non-English speaker, however, looked at least mildly interested, for he most certainly hadn’t ever smoked a true American cigar before. He reached out to take one, but his brother cast him a look and he quickly refused as well. Castiel shrugged and lit his, popping into his mouth and letting it dangle from his lower lip.

After a few puffs he took it out, smoke trailing from the tip, and explained, “Just fill all of this out and I’ll set you up with all of the necessities to make sure you’re living the American Dream. Got it?”

The taller man nodded, leaning over to his brother and repeating the phrase in Italian. At the mention of “Il Sogno Americano” his eyes lit up, that bone-deep weariness replaced by joy and excitement.

 “Can I have your paperwork, please?” Castiel asked, waiting patiently as the taller one took the suitcase from his brother and fished out two passports and the forms they’d been given at Ellis Island.

Castiel accepted them graciously took and flipped through the weathered pages, looking for their date of birth and city of origin as he took another drag from his cigar, letting the grey cloud trail from his mouth as he breathed out.

Both were bachelors from Naples, but, surprisingly, the tall one was the younger brother, Samuele. Castiel had never been to Naples, but he’d heard that it was quite beautiful and at the moment had no big problems.

If that was the case, then why did they come over to America?

Even more odd was the fact that Samuele’s brother was name Dean, which, as far as Castiel knew, was a primarily Greek name.  

 “Your last name is Winchester?” Cas asked, quirking an eyebrow at what one of the people at Ellis Island had written

“Now it is,” Samuele replied, shrugging. He had a soft, gentle look to him, with fawn-colored hair and skin darkened from many days spent out in the Italian sun. “It used to be Winchardo.”

Castiel understood how they sometimes shortened or changed immigrants’ last names to make them easier to pronounce or spell, but this was downright rude. He couldn’t help but think of how alluring it was for Dean to have the last name of a well-known gun manufacturer.

“May I ask how your brother’s name came to be Dean?” Castiel asked.

At the ward boss’ mention of his name, the brother in question jerked to attention, looking suspiciously from Castiel to Samuele. For all he knew they could’ve been trash-talking him and he’d have absolutely no clue what they were saying.

“Our parents took a trip to…to…Grecia one year,” Samuele explained, struggling to find the English name for Greece and eventually giving up. “They…met a man…named Dean there. He saved…them from a…gang and helped them…get back to Italy.”

Castiel nodded, chuckling at Dean’s narrow-eyed, accusatory expression. Samuele joined in soon after, which only made the immigrant even more flustered.

The light filtering in from the gigantic windows was illuminating the dips and hollows of his face in gold, highlighting his chiseled jaw, tanned skin, and tousled hair. Dean wouldn’t have trouble wooing an American girl at all, and for some reason Castiel felt a twinge of something like jealousy at that.

Castiel’s thoughts were interrupted when Dean blurted, “Le strade sono davvero lastricate d'oro?”

_"Are the streets really paved with gold?”_

Castiel had trouble processing the remark, but he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose nevertheless. Samuele seemed livid at his brother’s outburst, and Dean glared back at him defiantly, muttering a few profound things under his breath.

“No, the streets aren’t paved with gold,” Castiel replied, and Dean’s face fell, though the he quickly tried to cover up his disappointment.

Castiel couldn’t help but feel pity for him. America was overrated in that sense; it wasn’t that the country wasn’t better than where they were coming from, but the rumors that were flying around those parts made America seem like Heaven.

He glanced back at the papers below, where it was written why the…Winchesters…had left to find a new life in America:

_We hav nothing but eech other._

Castiel swallowed hard, glancing up at the two young men, who were whispering furiously in lightning fast Italian, too rapidly for anyone but a native speaker to understand.

He read more into the form, chewing on his lower lip as he skimmed the words. Even though Samuele couldn’t spell very well, he could still write the letters just fine.

_Our Madre dieyd in a fyre wen we wer children. Our Padre dranc himself to deth to weeks layter after obsesing over who may’ve startid the fyre, even though the plise sayd arson was out of the question. Now we are poor and our hous was taken away frum us. We seek food, shelter, and jobs in America._

“Okay, listen up.”

Samuele turned to face him so quickly that Castiel feared he’s sprained something in his neck, giving Dean a hard jab in the ribs when the Italian kept talking. Dean scowled but soon realized Castiel’s expectant look, copying his brother’s rigidness.

“I can get you everything you need, but first I need to know how you learned English, Samuele.”

“Please, just Sam,” he replied, though his voice was taut. Castiel didn’t question his rigidness, knowing that clients tended to grow nervous when asked personal questions, but he couldn’t help but wonder.

“Okay, Sam, how did you learn English?”

A pause.

“There was a British woman named Ruby who taught me the basics.” His words slipped out in a hurried rush, his shoulders becoming impossibly tenser as his eyes glazing over with something akin to regret and anger.

“Non prima che lei ti annegasse nell'alcol!” Dean spat, and Castiel was startled at the burning hate in his eyes.

_“Not before she drowned you in alcohol!”_

Dean looked stunning even if he was angry and shouting in another language, and it took all of the ward boss’ power not to give a petty little star-struck sigh, like the one the women would make when they swooned and dropped into their savior’s waiting arms.

Castiel turned to Sam, who was beet red and looked just about ready to throttle his older brother, glaring at him as if he’d burst into flames if he did it hard enough. Dean, seeing that he’d made a huge mistake, quickly began apologizing and saying he was kidding, but Castiel didn’t wrench his gaze away from Sam.

Sam swallowed hard, wringing his hands in his lap as nervousness clouded his features, but it was mostly fear.

Fear that Castiel would deny them and have them sent back to Italy.

“Ruby didn’t only teach me English,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as his hand-wringing gained more ferocity. “She also gave me a drink. And then another. And then another. Pretty soon I was an alcoholic.”

He looked up, wondering what Castiel’s reaction would be, but the ward boss kept his face a mask, for he’d learned and perfected his poker face during his years of participating in politics.

Sam swallowed and continued on, “We couldn’t afford any drinks and Dean was struggling to make ends meet with his job as a bartender, so I asked him to steal me drinks from the bar. He told me no, and I wasn’t surprised. He’s too righteous to steal.”

He cast a grateful look to Dean, who was rigid in his chair and didn’t return the gesture of brotherly affection.

 “But _I_ wasn’t. I took as much alcohol as I dared from the cellars, drinking myself stupid every night. Pretty soon Dean had to quit his job in order to help me get over the addiction. We couldn’t pay rent so when the tax collector came he took our house away. Dean managed to gamble and win enough money to get us two tickets to America.”

Castiel was silent for a long while, drumming his fingers on the desk as the two watched him in tense silence, the only other sounds being the bustle outside and the voices of the other people there.

More immigrants were filing in, and Castiel was aware that the newest boat, fresh with people from Bosnia and Herzegovina fleeing the political upheaval, was scheduled to arrive in a half hour.

Finally, Castiel nodded slowly and they relaxed, their fear of being turned away disappearing, along with most of their worries and doubts.

“What words of English does Dean know? He said ‘no’ and ‘speak’ before,” Castiel asked.

Sam pursed his lips into a thin line, turning to his brother and asking him the same question.

After a slight pause, Dean broke out into an incomprehensible jumble of sentences. “Halloe. No speak Eenglesh. Yes. Ickscus me. Goodbye.”

The young man was flushed a shade of red typically reserved for tomatoes, embarrassed at his lack of skill in the language, and Castiel couldn’t help but find it quite…endearing, but he quickly sook those thoughts away.

He went to church every Sunday and he liked women, had to like women, but he couldn’t help himself whenever his eyes slid to the spattering of freckles on Dean’s cheeks and nose, trying to count just how many there were. The young man would be lucky whenever he found a loving wife and settled down. The thought only served to make Castiel bitter.

“It’s a start,” he sighed, speaking up so he wasn’t alone with his treasonous thoughts. He needed to get into perspective just how much this family of two needed help, so despite the fact that it was a touchy subject he questioned, “How much money do you have?”

Dean gave a questioning look to Sam, asking him to translate, but the younger man’s shoulders sagged considerably as he held up his large, empty palms. Nothing.

They’d spent every last lira on their tickets to America, and now the only things they had were whatever was in the suitcase, the clothes on their backs, and each other. One of them didn’t even speak proper English.

“That’s okay,” Castiel told them when their anxious looks returned. “I’ve got it all covered.” He gave Sam a pre-made slip that had two addresses on it and two names. “I’ll call them up and tell him of your arrival, and everything’s already paid for.”

“Gabriel Novak?” Sam asked, looking up at him quizzically.

“My brother,” Castiel replied. “He owns the tenements there. Every week I send a great sum of food to him to pass around and make sure that none of you are starving to death, but make sure you pay rent in time or he’ll throws you into the street like that.”

 Castiel snapped for emphasis, and Sam paled considerably.

“Don’t worry, though; he’ll cut you some slack until you and Dean are settled with wages. The next address and name is where you work and who your new boss will be.”

“Alastair?” the taller brother mused, his brows knitting as he skimmed over the rest of the information. “That’d an odd name.”

“He’s from Scotland.”

“Ah,” Samuele snorted, attempting not to sound snobbish or rude, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile.

Alastair was, indeed, a rather odd name, but so was his own name. It wasn’t his fault that his parents were incredibly religious and decided to name their son after some Angel of Thursday.

“Alastair runs the car factory in town, and I can make sure he puts you and Dean close to one another so you can make sure that he knows the ropes,” Cas explained. “But be careful. Alastair doesn’t like slackers and cuts workers really fast if they aren’t doing their job right. Heck, some people even call him one of Hell’s greatest torturers.”

Samuele outright laughed at that, and Dean gave him an odd but hopeful look, as if Sam would relay the joke along to him.

After the laughing died down there was a period where only silence reigned between them and, in order to avoid that silence from becoming awkward, Castiel said, “I guess this concludes our session.”

He and Sam rose, and Dean quickly followed. He shook hands with the two of them, grinning, and handed them all of their paperwork back, as well as some of his own that he’d added.

“Thank you. Can we in any way repay you for your generosity?” Sam asked, and the politician had been waiting for him to ask that question.

“All you have to do is make sure you vote for me when you become eligible.”

“How long will that take?”

“Five years, give or take. That’s how long it takes to become a citizen.” Castiel snorted at Sam’s appalled expression. “The location of the best ballot places are on the forms. Again, welcome to the U.S.A, and I hope you can make yourself at home in New York.”

He cast a longing glance to Dean, who was practically bouncing with excitement at settling in the land of the free, and the ward boss smiled softly at the sight, only to be jolted back to reality by Sam’s reply:

“We will. Thank you again, Castiel.”

There was very easygoing grin spreading across his face as he regarded the location of their new home. The politician couldn’t find the courage to sit down as he watched the two brothers’ backs while they walked towards the exit, and even though he’d undoubtedly see them again, he couldn’t really bear to not see those startling green eyes for such an expanse of time.

Just as they were about to slip out, Castiel called out to him, “Dean!”

Dean turned, his eyebrows raised and an expression of pure relief and bliss on his face, anticipation glittering in his eyes like gemstones.

“Ti piacerebbe tornare…err…alle nove e imparare l'inglese con me?” A pause as Dean’s face lit up, and even from his position he could see the corner of the young man’s eyes crinkling as he grinned.

_“Will you come at nine to learn English with me?”_

The politician steeled himself when he realized that the immigrant’s excitement was probably because the ward boss was offering to teach him English, much more than his brother could teach him, and not because of the prospect of seeing the Castiel again.

“Si, Cas! Grazie!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to re-write this story, my only Supernatural fanfic I've ever written despite this being my favorite show. I'm a much more evolved writer now, and I guarantee that this will be better than the original.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Flashbacks depicting death and sickness

**II.**

_“The term for this period came into use in the 1920s and 1930s and was derived from writer Mark Twain's and Charles Dudley Warner's 1873 novel_ The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today _, which satirized an era of serious social problems masked by a thin gold gilding…”_

-

 

Sam couldn’t quite extinguish his grin as he and Dean made their way toward the address that Castiel had written, anticipation fluttering in his stomach like butterflies.

Throngs of people milled around him, the babble of at least ten different languages permeating the air like a giant mixing pot of culture, and an endless expanse of heavenly blue sky stretched above, dotted with wispy cotton clouds. The December weather was cool, much cooler than what Sam was used to in Italy, but not to the point where he was shivering.

Children stumbled over one another on imaginary military escapades, vendors harked their wares, and workers chatted amicably as they set off to work, their overalls soot-stained but their eyes sparkling.

Sure, the streets weren’t paved with gold and the atmosphere was noisy and chaotic, but it was their new home, and Sam couldn’t be prouder of it; he was finally in America, finally free of the tax collector and Ruby and every other godforsaken person who’d shared a drink with him.

His eyes widened as he regarded the towering buildings, monsters of brick and glass and concrete whose windows glared down on the people milling below. Women and their children were waving to their husbands and fathers on the street, bidding them farewell for the day in so many different languages that Sam lost count

Dean stuck to his brother’s side as if glued there, his eyes darting around warily at the crowd around them; men, women, children, white people, black people, hispanic people, and others of all races, ages, shapes, sizes, and cultures.

Sam understood why his brother was feeling so anxious; he was in an entirely different country and everyone was speaking a different language than him. Had their positions been reversed, Sam probably would’ve felt the same way.

Seeing his brother reduced to this state, however, pained Sam to no end.

Normally, Dean was a figure of bravado, all confidence and seldom shy, but now in this new land he was an entirely different person altogether, and if he hadn’t been too prideful for his own good, Dean probably would be clinging to Sam for dear life.

There was something in his eyes, a nervous fear that reminded Sam of how wildlife was always on high alert at all times.

A horse and wagon rattled past, stacked high with crates of fruit and pastries, and Dean’s stomach gave a very insistent rumble, which was soon joined by that of Sam’s own stomach.

They hadn’t eaten since early morning, when they’d disembarked from that wretched steamship and finally finished their last slices of stale bread.

 Sam shivered when he reminisced of the time spent traveling overseas, of how he and Dean had been crammed together with strangers, suffocating on the stench of too many bodies packed into too small of a space. They’d had to sleep on burlap sacks and do their business in buckets that sometimes tipped over of the boat was rocking hard enough. People would vomit on each other from the seasickness, and once someone got sick the whole radius of people around them went down too because there was nowhere to move or quarantine them.

Sam and a select group of others, since they were the tallest and the strongest, had been tasked with dispatching the bodies of those who’d perished, putting him at an even higher risk of getting sick himself.

Men, women, and children’s bodies had been thrown overboard like waste, for there was nowhere else to keep them on deck, and Sam had watched them sink down, consumed by the lapping waves.

Dean’s reassuring hand on his forearm jolted Sam out of his terrible reveries, and when their eyes met his older brother’s eyes were searching his, trying to find the source of his discomfort.

“ _Are you okay?_ ” Dean asked, the Italian rolling smoothly off his tongue, quite unlike the harsh, jolting syllables of his English. “ _You’re a little pale._ ”

“ _It’s okay, Dean, I’m fine,_ ” Sam assured him. For the first time in a while, he actually meant it, a slow grin breaking across his face as he turned his gaze up to the hustle and bustle of New York City. _“I’m great, actually.”_

 _“That’s good to hear,”_ Dean chuckled. _“It’s great to have a fresh start, isn’t it?”_

_“I’ll say.”_

_“So…you have any idea where our new house is?_ ” Dean asked, switching the topic and grinning from ear to ear. He bounced with barely-contained excitement as he regarded the buildings that stood regally on either side of them. “ _Ooh, I bet it’s that one!_ ”

He pointed to a clean and polished structure whose metal terrace gleamed in the light of the noon sun, its windows sparkling. Sam shook his head and for a moment Dean pouted, but that’s when another building caught his eye.

“ _What about this one?_ ”

“ _No, guess again,_ ” Sam replied, paying close attention to the building numbers that distinguished one structure from another.

They continued on like that, with Dean guessing and Sam shaking his head, though smiles lit up both of their faces.

The street, as they progressed, began to get narrower, and they had to squeeze between the growing numbers of people, which confused the immigrants to no end; if the street was narrower, why were there more people?

“ _Please tell me we’re just passing through. I don’t like any of the buildings here,_ ” Dean remarked, gulping a bit as his smile turned slightly nervous.

Worry tinged the edges of Sam’s excitement, threatening to turn it sour, though he refused to let the change of scenery bring him down despite how it was really trying its best to do so.

Roofs were crumbling, people were emptying the contents of their chamber pots onto the street, splattering waste everywhere, and buildings leaned at a horrifying angle.

He didn’t tell Dean this, but the numbers were getting nearer to the number of their tenement. He and his brother skirted around the maggot-infested corpse of an emaciated dog, and both of them had to stop themselves from throwing up.

That’s when Sam stopped, grabbing his brother’s sleeve as he continued to travel down the path. A rusty and dented sixty-six hung in front of an equally decrepit wooden door, and the immigrants swallowed hard in unison.

“ _Is-?_ ”                

“ _Yeah._ ”

Together they scaled the narrow stoop and stood side-by-side, though it was an incredibly tight fit, in front of the door to their new home.

The walls were sagging, with the wooden planks that made it up rotting and even in some cases missing. The windows were mere holes covered by variously patterned fabrics that belonged to those who lived in the rooms beyond.

Dean finally allowed his face to fall, and though he was trying to hide it, Sam could see disheartened defeat that glazed his eyes.

He tried to stay positive, tried to convince himself that it would be gorgeous on the inside, but eventually his smile disappeared as well.

Slowly, Sam raised a trembling hand to the door and knocked once. Twice. Three times.

Though the knocks could barely be heard over the bustle of raggedy-looking people, they loud and clear in the two brothers’ ears.

They waited for a few moments, the time stretching out to seem like hours as they switched their weight from foot to foot and wrung their hands together.

The doorknob turned from the other side and both boys jumped as the door swung open, revealing a short, fawn-haired man with piercing gold eyes.

Sam could see how he and Cas were related, and even though they seemed worlds different physically, both held that same quiet intensity that made it hard to maintain eye contact.

“What can I do for you, boys?” he asked, sizing both of them up in three seconds flat and folding his arms over his chesr.

“Your brother sent us here,” Sam replied, handing the papers over to him. “He said he’d call you in advance.”

Even he could hear how heavily accented his voice was, almost to the point where one couldn’t even understand him, and he felt thickening resolve to correct that. Perhaps as he exercised his use of the language he’d become more fluent in it

“Indeed he did, Sam and Dean. Come on in! You don’t want to catch your death out here in this December weather,” the keeper of the tenements exclaimed in a rather…flamboyant manner, waving them inside. The brothers entered, though Dean trailed behind rather hesitantly. “Make yourselves at home; you’ll be living in room twenty-five, on the second floor.”

“And who else lives here?” Sam questioned as Gabriel led them down the narrow hall, which opened up into a slightly larger foyer with a staircase going up.

“You’ll soon see; everyone knows everyone here,” he replied.

There were doors lining the walls in this room, starting at one and ending at seven. Sam supposed that there would be more room upstairs for other tenements.

“And what do you have to say about this?”

Dean jolted when he realized that the keeper was talking to him, and he swallowed hard, looking down and flushing.

Of course, this wasn’t what Gabriel expected the reaction to be, and he cocked an eyebrow at Sam. “Is he shy…?”

“He doesn’t speak English.”

Gabriel understood and thankfully didn’t ask any more questions, gesturing for them to follow as he began to ascend the rickety wooden steps. Every time Sam put his weight down the board screeched as if being murdered, and he was pretty sure that he’d get splinters just by touching the railing provided.

Gabriel seemed to be trying hard to keep this place in top condition, but the immigrant couldn’t help but feel revolted at the state of the building. The floor was in serious need of sweeping, the walls were covered in a thin film of grime, and there were more than enough unappealing scents that assaulted Sam’s nose, which he fought to keep from wrinkling in disgust.

“ _Do you hear that_?” Dean asked, and Gabriel cast an inquiring glance back at them when he heard the foreign language roll from Dean’s tongue.

Showing no sign of knowing what they were talking about, the keeper’s gaze returned ahead.

“ _No_ ,” Sam replied, falling silent for a moment to listen, the only sound being the floorboards that wailed underfoot.

Above the cacophony, though, he heard a faint scraping and scratching sound, like how fingernails would sound if dragged down a wall. He turned to Dean, cocking his head in question.

“ _Rats,_ ” his brother replied through grit teeth. “ _There are rats in the walls._ ”

 Sam choked back the bile that was rising up in his throat, his heart rate beginning to quicken. Surely Castiel wasn’t serious when he’d put this address on the form. Perhaps it was all a mistake?

America was supposed to be a place where things were better, and that surely implied that there would be incredible housing that was pleasing to the eye. Dean deemed to be thinking the same exact thing, for a motley of expressions flitted across his features, all revolving around a single emotion; nervousness.

Had they slipped-up when they decided to come to this country? Then again, Castiel had guaranteed them food, water, and wages to top it all off, and Sam quickly dismissed the thought; anything was better than returning to their old life, and he was sure to remind himself of that.

“Here’s your room,” Gabriel explained, jolting the brothers out of their musings. A gleaming 25 hung on the door, and the keeper held out his hand, two brass keys nestled into his palm. “Don’t lose these, or you’re paying for them.”

And with that said, he gave a dismissive nod of acknowledgement and left, returning to whatever task he’d been performing at the time they’d arrived. Hopefully a cleaning activity of sorts. Sam gave Dean one of the keys, keeping the other for himself. Slowly, he inserted it into the lock and turned it, a faint click being heard as the door swung open with a creak of rusted hinges.

“Fanculo!” Dean hissed, earning him an elbow to the ribs for his profanity. “ _Is Castiel playing some sort of game?_ ”

The apartment was practically a room, and one with an obscene draft as well. Both shivered as the air nipped at their cheeks and noses, curling around them and causing gooseflesh to crop up along their skin. Two small beds sat side by side in the left corner, the quilts that covered them, though moth-eaten, looking so much more enticing than burlap sacks.

A dresser that could be shared between the two brothers lay in between them, including an oil lamp that was almost expended; they’d have to buy new oil soon, for they weren’t keen on blundering around in the dark. There was a small kitchen area, with a counter, an icebox, and a cabinet, and a shaggy rug adorned the floor to make it at least slightly welcoming.

There was no washroom in sight.

“ _There’s a shared washroom_ ,” Sam told Dean at his brother’s inquiring, and his brother scowled in clear disdain.

After a long pause the younger brother said softly, “ _I think it’s wonderful._ ”

Dean gave him a look like he’d just grown another head, and Sam chuckled a bit, walking over to the lone window and drawing away the fabric that covered it to reveal a gaping hole in the wall that resembled a window.

Their view was a cracking, mud-slathered brick wall, and Dean gave him another withering, yet unsure, look.

“ _It’s_ ours _, Dean_ ,” Sam said indignantly, defensive at his brother’s doubts. “ _Not Padre’s, not Madre’s,_ ours. _We finally have something to ourselves, and there’s no tax collector to take it away from us.”_

“ _There’s Gabriel,_ ” was Dean’s snarky reply, shutting the door rather forcefully as to ensure that nobody was watching. “ _He can throw us out on our asses if he pleases._ ”

Sam rolled his eyes. “ _Yeah, but at least we’re guaranteed wages._ ”

At that comment Dean’s face seemed to soften, and he gave the room another once-over as Sam explored the cabinets and tested out the comfort of the beds, claiming the one nearest to the wall as his own. Setting down their single suitcase, the young man waited in earnest for his brother’s final verdict.

Dean’s eyes rested on Sam, and he smiled gently at the sight of his brother on an actual bed and not a sack.

“ _I can get used to it,_ ” he admitted finally, walking over and plopping down on the other bed.

Both brothers finally felt the burden of that day’s excitement weigh heavily on their shoulders, bringing with it the hefty feeling of exhaustion.

Sam felt like he was going to nod off when an insistent knock came from the door.

Immediately Dean was on his feet in a fighting stance. Of course, it was probably Gabriel checking up on them, but when Sam answered it certainly wasn’t the keeper of the tenements.

“Hello!” a bright woman in her late thirties or early forties greeted, her faint blonde hair curling around her shoulders and her eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled. A young woman was with her, undoubtedly her daughter, who also boasted the same blonde hair as her mother. “Gabriel told us that we had new neighbors. Others are on their way. May we come in?”

Dazed for a few moments, Sam finally stuttered, “Yeah, sure, of course. Come in.”

He stepped aside and allowed the two women to enter, though they didn’t seem at all surprised at the state the tenement was in, not to mention the chilled air that shouldn’t be associated with a home.

“I would sit you down, but we don’t have a table,” he told them sheepishly.

The younger of the two waved him off, rolling her eyes, “Don’t get too uptight about it, Sasquatch, we don’t have one either.”

“Um…” Sam wasn’t sure of what to make of it, and the two laughed at his obvious bewilderment.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it,” the older one assured him. “By the way, I’m Ellen Harvelle and this is my daughter, Jo.”

Jo waved when she was mentioned, casting a very admiring glance in Dean’s direction, who poised like he was a model basking in the limelight.

“I’m Sam Wachar-” he paused for a moment, remembering, “Winchester. And that’s my older brother, Dean.”

Hearing his name, Dean gave a small nod in the two ladies’ direction, flashing his signature half-smirk. Sam wasn’t surprised when Jo returned the gaze with equal vigor and enthusiasm, though he knew that Dean was just playing like he used to do.

Those smiles had been practically nonexistent during the dark times before they immigrated, those confident eyes hollowed out from malnourishment.

Sam swallowed hard as he recalled all of the nightmares he’d had where, instead of just a faceless stranger, it was Dean who he was throwing overboard from the immigrant ship, his body joining the rest of those who’d suffered the same fate.

“You’re Winchesters?” Jo’s question jolted Sam back into reality. “Like the gun?”

Ellen glared daggers at her daughter for imposing such a question, but the blonde just shrugged nonchalantly.

 “You boys Italian?” Ellen asked, trying to veer from the sore subject, though little did she know that she’d just stepped into an even sorer one.

“Yeah,” he replied offhandedly, trying not to recall any past memories. “Though Italy hasn’t necessarily been good to us. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here”

This earned him a chuckle from both women, and they both sat on the bed and adjusted their skirts to accommodate the position.

Dean threw him an accusatory glance, wondering why the two were making themselves at home, and Sam explained, “ _Welcome celebration, I guess. There are others coming._ ”

As if on cue another knock could be heard, and when Dean answered a whole cluster of people filed inside without any invitation.

The look on the elder Winchester’s face should’ve been framed and hung on the wall.

“These are all of the people who are actually worth something in these tenements,” Ellen told them with a grin, regarding the strangers that had invited themselves into Sam and Dean’s new home. “The others are recluses, though we all have our moments.”

She rose to greet everyone while the two brothers stood off to the side awkwardly, totally unaccustomed to these sorts of social situations. “These people will become your best friends and your worst enemies, or both, but overall we still love each other, isn’t that right?”

Everyone nodded and laughed, bringing up things that could only be inside jokes and past experiences.

“There’s Fergus and his mother, Rowena, both from Scotland, though the people at Ellis Island mixed up Fergus’ name and another’s, and now his legal name is Crowley.”

The two in question didn’t really acknowledge their hosts, too occupied with bickering and nagging one another in lightning-fast Scots.

“There’s also Megan, or Meg as she likes to be called, an aspiring suffragist and Progressive who I honest to God believe will make a difference in this world.”

“Nice to meet you, boys,” Meg greeted in a voice that could only be described as drawling, her brown hair falling loose around her shoulders.

“You, too.”

“There are others as well,” Ellen said as if reading Sam’s thoughts; he’d been wondering where their husbands and fathers were, or if they had any sons. “My son, Ash, and my husband, Bill, are at work.”

“What about Crowley?” Sam questioned before he could stop himself.

The person in question didn’t see to hear him, still very immersed in the argument with his mother.

“Crowley is a tailor,” Jo replied, casting an amused look in the man’s direction. “This is his day off, though.”

“Well I’m glad to have met you all,” Sam exclaimed, looking around at the people who were his neighbors.

 They were so unlike the ones they’d been stuck with in Italy, who were cold and reserved and downright rude to them as their predicaments piled up, and Sam was pretty sure they’d celebrated when the brothers had left for America.

He had a feeling he was going to like it here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Thank you so much for reading! Leave a comment and kudos if you like it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): None

**III.**

_“The average annual wage per industrial…rose from $380 in 1880 to $564 in 1890…However, the Gilded Age was also an era of abject poverty and inequality as millions of immigrants…poured into the United States, and the high concentration of wealth became more visible and contentious…”_

-

 

To say Dean was anxious to meet up with Castiel was an understatement.

For the last hour he’d been leaving the room sporadically to look at the grandfather clock in the front hall, willing for it to strike nine.

If Castiel could help him learn English, it would give him and Sam a huge boost when it came time to move on from the jobs Castiel had provided, not to mention it would whip Dean’s self-esteem back into shape.

He was smart in Italian. He knew how to talk, knew how to say the right things and charm the right people. But in English?

He felt like an idiot, constantly tripping over his own tongue as he struggled to pronounce words he could hardly understand. When he was talking in English, he was a complete failure, a waste of space as a human being. The language mocked him, choking him with its foreign syllables and making his face burn because he sounded stupid even though he _most certainly wasn’t stupid_ —

Dean growled under his breath as he took another lap, glancing at the clock only to find that he still had at least two hours left to go. The clock itself read eight, but there was a polite sign taped beside it that reminded people that it was forty-five minutes ahead.

Everyone had left their apartment not long after they’d arrived, though not before an exchange of stories over delicious baked goods; they knew that the day had been so exhausting for them, what with the conclusion of their long trip, and had departed with promises of getting in touch soon.

They were good neighbors, and Dean was shocked at their stroke of luck. Before today, it seemed to him that they would never be lucky, doomed to live from misfortune to misfortune for the rest of their lives; the only things they had at the moment were two sets of clothes each, two night garments, two coats, a scarf, a pair of fingerless gloves, a cheap bowler hat, and an Italian to English dictionary.

They’d sold, bartered, and pawned every other thing they owned, including their Padre’s silver cufflinks and their Madre’s jewelry. Dean couldn’t help but think that he and Sam were horrible sons, but he was hopeful that their new start in America would help them make up for their sins.

_“Look!” someone cried, practically tripping down the steps as she hurried below deck. There were tears in her eyes. “Everyone, come up and look!”_

Dean smiled to himself as he shouldered back into the apartment, ignoring Sam’s eye roll as he settled down onto the bed, staring up at the cracked and peeling paint on the ceiling.

_There was a huge clamor and a ton of pushing and shoving as everyone tried to cram up the stairs at once, dirt-smudged faces and weary eyes rising up to meet the light of dawn. The boat listed to the side and everyone stumbled, laughing it off and chattering excitedly. It was the most lively they’d been in weeks._

_“What do you think is going on?” Sam asked as he and Dean scaled the steps side-by-side. “Why is everyone—?”_

_He gasped, and Dean struggled to see over the hordes of whooping, dancing, and weeping travelers._

_“What?” Dean demanded, standing on his tippy-toes as he and his brother tried to shove over to the railing, but everyone was pouring out onto the deck like high tide. “What’s happening?”_

_The crowd parted, just for a moment, and Dean’s mouth dropped open._

_The boat’s horn sounded, a deafening drone, but Dean couldn’t find it in himself to care as he stared up at the magnificent green statue that stood proudly at the opening of the harbor, the golden flame of her torch silhouetted against the newborn sun._

_“We’re here!” he cried, whooping for joy as everyone shrieked and cried and celebrated as the Statue of Liberty welcomed them to America with open arms. “We’re finally here, we made it!”_

_Someone climbed up onto a crate and began to lead the crowd in a shaky, heavily-accented, semi-Italian version of “Amazing Grace.” It was the only American song that anyone really new._

_Gulls cried overhead, circling over them in search of scraps as bells rung and the waves lapped at the side of the boat, and yet all seemed still and quiet._

“Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me!”

_“I love you, Sammy,” Dean whispered, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “I’m so glad I’m here with my little brother.”_

“I once was lost, but now I’m found!”

_“Me, too.” Sam didn’t seem to be able to say any more as he crushed Dean in a hug, sniffing into his shoulder. “I’m glad, too.”_

“Was blind, but now I see!”

 _“Earth to Dean Winchardo, come in Dean!”_ Sam was waving his hand in his face, the Italian words on his tongue brusque, and Dean blinked owlishly at him for a few moments before shaking his head clear of the reveries and sitting up straight in bed. _“You were zoning out for a while there. You okay?”_

Dean nodded, smiling to himself, though he didn’t offer the explanation that Sam seemed to be waiting for.

 _“What time is it?”_ he asked.

_“Not time yet.”_

Dean groaned and collapsed back onto the covers, throwing an arm over his face. Now that his memories weren’t at the forefront of his mind, Castiel was drifting back to him like an apparition from the mist, his blue eyes piercing through the fog like lanterns.

They seemed to be boring into his soul, taking away all of his willpower to divert his mind away from anything Castiel related. There was something about him that made Dean want to talk and get to know him.

It was just a lesson, though. Probably one that was based on the guarantee of Dean’s vote in the election.

He wondered why he even considered the possibility that he and Castiel could be friends; Dean was a penniless immigrant fresh off the boat while Castiel was a politician millionaire. _His_ cufflinks were worth Dean’s rent for the year multiplied by ten.

Castiel probably didn’t have to go to sleep worrying about the draft that leaked through his gaping hole of a window, or about when the next meal was going to arrive; hell, he probably ate things that Dean couldn’t even imagine being close to, much less put in his mouth and chew.  

Dean didn’t allow these differences to make him bitter and cold, though; he was happy for the politician and his luck, and was thankful beyond belief for his generosity.

America was a whole new culture to explore, and the immigrant wasn’t sure whether he wanted to dive headfirst into it; had the New Yorkers been anything like the scumbags on the street in Italy, who tried to cheat he and his brother out of every last lira, then perhaps Dean wouldn’t’ve been so accepting of his prosperity and wealth.

At Dean’s pondering expression, Sam gave him a curious glance from over the American newspaper that Crowley had given him, the Italian to English dictionary by his side in case he needed to learn words he didn’t know. The candles scattered through the tenement were lit and burning slowly, casting ghostly shadows over their faces.

Dean squinted at the front of the news, with a bold headline that was lost as Dean’s mind attempted to process what he was reading. The words were a bunch of gibberish to him, all scrambled letters and unfamiliar markings, and despite how he managed to pick out a few select phrases, none of them made any sense at all when pieced together.  

 _“It’s called The New York Times,”_ he explained when he saw Dean struggling, pointing to the letters in the fancy font at the top of the page. _“It’s what the New Yorkers read around here if they want to know what’s going on in the world.”_

 _“Interesting.”_ Dean really didn’t think so, but he wasn’t about to put a damper on Sam’s mood. _“Have fun with that.”_

The flames on the candles danced and twirled like ballerinas, wax dripping slowly down their stout trunks as the fire burned.

Sammy had something to do, but Dean sure as hell didn’t, and he didn’t feel like watching the candles glow for that long, though he had to admit that it was mesmerizing.

After a few snorts and scoffs, all spread out through a long period of peaceful hush, his brother glared at him over the top of the thin, crisp pages.

“ _Is there something that you want to tell me, Dean?_ ” he asked, his eyes returning to the paper, still moving as he read the article. Dean had to admit, he was impressed with his brother’s multitasking abilities. Perhaps one day he’d be able to do that, too.

“ _No,_ ” he replied gruffly, swinging his legs up so that he sat the same way as Sam was sitting.

They lapsed into silence once more, and Dean looked around the dark room, which he had to admit was homey and cozy once the candles were lit, though he was still disbelieving of the fact that this was his new home.

That wonder, though, was short-lived as his boredom demanded attention.

A pause. He let out another grunt.

Sam snapped the newspaper closed, officially boasting his infamous bitchface.

“ _Yes, Dean?_ ” the long-haired immigrant snapped, narrowing his eyes.

“ _S’nothin_ ,” Dean told him, inspecting his nails.

" _Dean._ ”

“ _I’m fine._ ”

Another bout of quiet, with only the sound of Sam’s newspaper rustling and Dean’s fidgeting breaking it, on top of the wind beating against the sheet over the window.

Dean attempted to entertain himself, watching the candles and fiddling with his fingers, but nine o’clock seemed like eternity away now

. He couldn’t play cards, he didn’t have a deck, and he couldn’t read, either. They’d found a Bible in their drawer, a customary procedure, but it was in English, of course.

Sam had even offered reading to him and translating, but his brother had turned him down with a huff and mumbling something about how he wasn’t a child. The seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes like hours, and finally Dean coughed a little.

“ _WHAT?!_ ”

Startled, Dean jumped a bit, almost knocking a candle off the nightstand, but he quickly regained his composure.

“ _Sorry,_ ” he said sheepishly. “ _Just bored._ ”

Sam’s face softened in understanding, and he finally folded up the newspaper and put it on the dresser.

“ _Well you’ll be plenty entertained when we go to work tomorrow_ ,” he replied. “ _And if this Castiel is any good at teaching English, then you’ll be able to read the paper, too._ ”

Dean nodded, not feeling in for Sam’s pity.  It was as if he were a lame dog who everyone felt bad for. But he had two working legs and certainly wasn’t a mutt, so he wanted none of it.

 “ _I’m going to go check if it’s nine yet,_ ” Dean sighed, rising to his feet.

He blundered about the room, still unfamiliar with it, but finally managed to grasp the doorknob and slip outside, ignoring Sam’s suggestion of bringing a candlestick with him.

He walked down the hallway as normally as he could manage, holding his hands out in front of him to keep him from crashing into anything. His weight caused the floorboards to creak and groan beneath him, and he wondered why there weren’t any candles outside of the rooms.

Then again, this was the slums; he shouldn’t expect the halls to be illuminated.

He felt around in front of him with his foot before taking a step, well aware of the fact that he could tumble down a set of stairs at any moment. T

he task provided him with something that would keep his mind off of a certain blue-eyed politician, and when he finally descended the wailing old steps, allowing himself to grab the unstable railing in the dark, he found that it was eight forty-five.

He was expected to arrive at nine, right? So he should head out now.

“ _I’m going_ ,” he announced when he arrived back to his tenement, and Sam, who’d resumed his newspaper reading (God, how long was that thing?), immediately sprang to his feet. Dean turned to leave, noting how it would be dark at this time of night, when he felt a hand gripping the back of his collar and tugging him backwards.

“ _Not like that, you’re not,_ ” Sam growled in reply. “ _It’s a December night, Dean. You’ll catch your death._ ”

He sounded like a worrying mother, but Dean didn’t comment since his brother would probably blow up and go on a rant about how cold weakens the immune system and stuff like that.

Dean didn’t really care about all that stuff, since he was ninety-nine percent sure that doctors had no idea what they were doing, but he put up with Sam’s fussing.

 Dean sat still as Sam wound the scarf round his brother’s neck, tucking it into his shirt and giving him the coat, too. Sam even bothered to pull the hat over his brother’s head and shove the fingerless gloves to his chest, which the short-haired man dutifully slipped on.

Sam extinguished most of the candles, excluding the one that he’d be using to read and one that he placed inside a candlestick, which had been generously gifted to them by Gabriel.

The flame sputtered whenever Sam moved, but didn’t go out.

Pulling Dean along with him, the younger brother tramped down the hallway, holding up the candlestick to illuminate his path. It took much less time than Dean’s trip, considering they had lights, and they were almost positive that they woke people up when they descended the wailing steps.

Finally, they slipped through the lobby and out the door.

The cold hit him like freight train, and Dean was surprised that the tenements were so much warmer on the inside, considering they had gaping holes for windows and not much insulation. The candle went out almost immediately, extinguished by the wind, which would leave his brother blundering about in the dark until he got back.

The freeze nipped at any piece of exposed skin, causing goose bumps to crop up on Dean’s arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. There was a very substantial wind, which only added to the chilled air, and he immediately stuffed his hands into the pockets of his tweed overcoat, his fingers already beginning to tingle.

Sam hadn’t bothered to put on his coat, considering the fact that he wasn’t going to be out for long, but even in this short time Dean got worried at his brother’s unprepared state. Sam was considerably, rubbing his arms as the wind buffeted them and his teeth chattered.

“ _Be safe,_ ” Sam warned, glancing warily at the dim, lamp-lit street with clear distrust. “ _This is a new country and you don’t know English and-”_

Dean cut him off, “ _I’ll be fine, Sam. Don’t worry._ ”

 His brother sighed, running a hand over his face and nodding. Dean kissed him on both cheeks, a fleeting sign of brotherly affection, and sprinted off into the unknown, already having memorized the route back.

 

\----

 

“Stop pacing, Cassie. You’ll wear a hole in the floor. He’ll show.”

Castiel’s head whipped around to shoot a withering glare in his brother’s direction, though Gabriel didn’t seem that concerned as he spun in circles in one of the secretary’s chairs.

“Don’t call me Cassie. I’m simply nervous, that’s all.”

Gabriel scoffed and puffed on a cigar, tapping some of the ashes into the ash tray and offering his brother one, who gladly accepted the offering. Smoke trailed and the smell of tobacco flooded through the room.

 Night was beginning to settle over the city like a calm navy blanket spangled with glittering stars. Since most of the light in Tammany Hall came from the large windows, Castiel was forced to light the many oil lamps that were dispersed around the room, giving it an eerie glow.

“So why’d you offer him English lessons?” Gabriel probed, releasing a steady cloud of smoke from his nose. “You don’t normally do that.”

“I’m kind to many of my clients,” Castiel snapped, finally exchanging his frantic pacing for shuffling through the papers on his desk.

_When all else fails, work._

Work could distract him from many things, and if Dean didn’t show, well at least he could finish those files that were due tomorrow afternoon.

“What about that couple from Greece that you helped earlier? You didn’t give them any benefits.”

 “As long as they’re voting for me in the next election, _I don’t care,_ ” Castiel scoffed, scratching away with his fountain pen whilst using way too much ferocity than was necessary. “They’re happy and satisfied in America and that means I’ve done my job, _which—_ ” he signed his name viciously, “—just so happens to have by far the most terrible work hours known to mankind.”

 “Really? Then why did you send those Spaniards to Azazel’s? You know the conditions are rubbish and the man’s a grouser like no other.” Gabriel cocked an eyebrow, though it was difficult to understand him as he mumbled around his cigar, something he'd been doing since he began stealing their father's packs.

“No reason,” Castiel snipped/

“It must’ve been the fact that he insulted your trench coat and called you a…what was it… _bastardo rico_?”

The politician look just about ready to breathe fire, his nostrils flaring as he fixed his brother with a stare that would cause flowers to wilt. He opened his mouth for a scathing reply when the door squealed open.

 Castiel was on his feet and striding over in two seconds flat, ignoring his brother’s smirk.

Dean slipped inside, closing the door gently behind him, his cheeks and nose rosy from the cold and his green eyes blazing in the light of the candles.

His clothes were a bit on the shabby side, but he seemed to have done his best to look presentable as a strand of hair peeked out from under the rim of his bowler’s hat.

Dean smiled at the sight of Castiel, a flash of dazzling teeth, and his heart did a summersault.

Dean’s eyes wandered the hall, which looked so much more different in the dark lighting, and they finally rested on Gabriel, who gave him a wink and a small wave, receiving a small nod of acknowledgement in return.

“Hal-oe, Cast-eel _,_ ” he managed sheepishly.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greeted, poising himself to make him seem more professional.

He leaned in to shake the immigrant’s hand, but Dean bypassed him and kissed him on both cheeks.

For a moment there was a stunned silence as Castiel’s cheeks began to burn, right where Dean had kissed them.

Dean’s brow furrowed for a few moments before his eyes went wide in shock. He clapped his hand over his forehead, muttering rapid curses under his breath, and the main thing Castiel could make out from it was, “ _Shit, I forgot Americans don’t kiss!”_

Now both of them blushing uncontrollably, the red skin creeping down their necks as the situation became more and more awkward between the two.

Gabriel was drinking it all in like he would drink down a bottle of Coca-Cola.

Dean was muttering apologies over and over again, even as Castiel, seeming to have forgotten that Dean couldn’t speak English,  replied with a litany of “It’s okay”s and “No worries”s.

“ _Well_ ,” Castiel stuttered as the bout finally ceased, leaving both of them still flushed a color reserved for tomatoes, “ _Let’s begin, shall we_?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): None

**IV.**

_“The early half of the Gilded Age… coincided with the middle portion of the Victorian era in Britain and the Belle Époque in France. Its beginning…after the American Civil War overlaps [with] the Reconstruction Era…[and] was followed in the 1890s by the Progressive Era…”_

-

 

Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows suggestively when Dean’s back was turned, and Castiel’s face stained scarlet as he politely shoved Gabriel out of the hall and dismissed all of the employees loitering around.

“My apologies,” Castiel muttered as he flitted around the room, adjusting stacks of paper and fretting over the disarray of everything as he led Dean over to his desk. “The place is in quite the state of…disorder. I should’ve tidied up a bit.”

Dean’s brow furrowed.

“ _Sorry the place is messy,”_ Castiel repeated in Italian, his syllables halting and his New York accent blaring like a bullhorn.

Dean waved him off. _“No worries. I’m not a prude.”_

Castiel chuckled, gesturing for Dean to take a seat in the chair that he’d occupied not hours before as he left his side to brows the towering bookshelves.

His fingers skimmed over the spines, some of them pristine and new while others were in tatters from being taken off of the shelves and lent out to coworkers so many times. After much rooting around while Dean watched on somewhat patiently, his foot bouncing and his fingers drumming on the arms of his chair, Castiel finally found what he was looking for.

 _“_ An Italian’s Guide to English: _perfect for people just starting out,”_ he exclaimed as he heaved the book into his arms and jogged over to the desk so he could drop it down and relieve his arms of the burden.

It landed with a thump, nearly crushing Dean’s fingers in the process, and Dean eyed the book warily, as if the book would throw itself open and swallow him up.

 “ _Don’t worry,_ ” he assured when he saw Dean’s distraught and wide-eyed expression, “ _First and foremost, don’t expect this to be a walk in the park. English is by far one of the hardest languages in history, with the exception of Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs._ ”

“ _Hieroglyphs_?” Dean asked, making a face as if the word tasted bitter on his tongue. _“What are hieroglyphs?”_

Castiel thought he was kidding at first, but at Dean’s incredulous and slightly embarrassed expression, he realized that it wasn’t a joke.

He should’ve expected this kind of thing; educated people who could find good jobs and make a good living in a problem-free mother country usually weren’t the ones to immigrate.

How was he supposed to teach Dean English when he didn’t even know the Italian words?

Perhaps Castiel would be able to educate him even further, not just keeping these lessons to be strictly English-based. He stored his thoughts for a later time, and in response to Dean’s question waved him off and encouraged him to drop the subject.

“ _So let’s reiterate what English words you know,_ ” Castiel encouraged, switching to English and saying, “Give it a shot.”

“ _I’m not good. It’s shameful.”_ Dean wrung his hands in his lap, avoiding Castiel’s gaze.

 “It’s okay,” he assured, his expression softening into something that he hoped looked encouraging, “You can do it.”

“ _I don’t know what that means,_ ” Dean hissed, frustrated as his nervous hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“ _You don’t have to know what it means_. _You just have to try._ ”

Dean stared at him for a long moment before saying, “It-z o-kay. You. Can. Do. It.”

 He mimicked Castiel word for word, his voice even dropping a few octaves, unsure of whether that was actually a part of the speech or not.

Then, in quick succession, he rambled, “Halloe. No speak Eenglesh. Yes. Ickscus me. Goodbye!”

“ _You did great,_ ” Castiel assured him, and Dean heaved a dramatic sigh of relief that made him laugh. “ _Many of the immigrants in the city don’t even speak it in the slightest. Considering that you just arrived this morning, you’re way ahead of the game._ ”

Dean puffed out his chest a little, his smile dazzling.

“ _Now let’s get started._ ” He maneuvered around the desk until he was sitting in the chair next to Dean’s, so close that their shoulders were almost touching.

Castiel’s heart rate quickened, and it took almost all of his concentration to open the Italian’s Guide to English to the first page. “ _You see, the English alphabet has a few more letters than the Italian alphabet does…_ ”

They spent a whole forty-five minutes tripping over the English alphabet together, Dean struggling to retain the new letters and their pronunciations. He was a slow learner, but he was determined, squinting hard at the pages of the book and repeating the letters over to himself over and over again with his hands clamped over his ears to block out any other background noise.

Castiel hesitated to teach him the alphabet song, not wanting to make Dean feel like he was being treated like a child, but eventually he took pity on his frustrated stuttering and helped him out. Castiel hadn’t sung a song since he was in his church’s boys’ choir, and his pitch left something to be desired, but Dean picked it up almost immediately afterward.

Dean, Castiel soon realized, struggled with rote memorization, but once presented with the information in a new way or from a new perspective, he grasped it in no time. He was a politician, not a teacher, but even he could tell that Dean would need to be taught in ways that weren’t necessarily conventional.

“Ay, bee, see, dee, e, eff, gee, aych, iy, jay, kay, el…el…el…”

“Em,”

“Yes, em. En, oh, pee, cue, argh, ess, tee, yoo, vee, dubleyew, ex, why, and zee.”

 “ _Yes! You’re getting it_. _Okay, let’s take a break._ ”

Dean beamed from ear to ear, and Castiel didn’t miss the little bounce he gave when he thought Castiel’s back was turned.

Dean watched as Castiel fished a cigar from his drawer and lit it, puffing on it before letting the smoke out of his nostrils in a deep exhale. He offered one to Dean, who again declined.

“ _You drink?_ ”

Dean shook his head, and Castiel, suddenly recalling what Sam Winchester had been through, hurried to apologize, though Dean was quick to interrupt.

“It…is…o-kay,” he managed, his jaw set.

“Good job. You’re doing incredible.”

“In-cre-di-ble?”

_“It’s like ‘good’ only better.”_

“Incre-dible!” Dean repeated, watching as Castiel fished a fiddle of whiskey off of the shelves and poured a glass for himself. _“That looks expensive.”_

_“It is.”_

Dean frowned, a variety of emotions warring behind his eyes.

 “ _Are you okay?”_ Castiel asked and tapped his fingers on his glass, the amber liquid to rippling and quivering.

“ _S’nothin,_ ” Dean assured, his eyes locking with Castiel’s. _“I’m fine.”_

Castiel’s heart was palpitating, and suddenly he could feel everything; the heat that Dean was giving off that contrasted to the bitter cold, the man’s breath ghosting feather-light in the air as he turned to look at him.

His fingers fumbled in his lap, his eyes darting around to look anywhere but Dean’s eyes. Ones that he could drown in if he wasn’t careful enough.

For another hour or so they continued to work from the book, with Castiel correcting Dean if he was wrong and telling him how to pronounce tough syllables using creative jingles and songs that he made up on the spot.

Though he only memorized about twenty new words, it was still a huge step, and Castiel was almost as proud of Dean as Dean was proud of himself.

“Finally…feel…a” A pause as he muttered one of the jingles under his breath. “little…A-mer-i-can.”

_“Dean, you were American the moment you stepped off that ship and went through Ellis Island. Knowing the language doesn’t make you any more or less American.”_

Dean bowed his head, a small smile playing on his lips.

To give him a break from the brain-melting confusion of English, Castiel gave Dean a brief overview of America’s history, a subject that Dean hadn’t even considered studying.

 _“So, America wasn’t always America?”_ Dean didn’t seem to understand how America had once been an extension of Britain before they rebelled. _“How did they win against Britain if they were so small?”_

_"They had great righteousness and perseverance. It’s something that our country seems to lack in today’s world.”_

_“Interesting. Maybe for once I’ll be the smarter brother,”_ Dean chuckled. _“I bet Sammy doesn’t know about the George Washington and the Civil War.”_

 _"You have the upper hand,”_ Castiel agreed with a snort. _“Just…try not to bring up the Civil War in conversation. It’s a touchy subject, even over ten years later.”_

 _"I hope people get over it soon.”_ He hesitated for a moment before asking, “ _Hey, did I tell you about the time when my brother lost his shoe?_ ”

“ _I don’t believe so, but I’d like to hear it._ ”

Dean played out the story with all of the bravado of someone who’d used this story to entertain hundreds of others before, tugging a few laughs and one mighty guffaw when he reached the punchline, and that’s how the night went from there.

They returned to studying, and Dean learned a lot more English along the way, but it wasn’t as formal as it’d been before.

They shared stories about their brothers, and Castiel told Dean about his six siblings, four brothers and two sisters, who all lived around the tri-state area.

 _“I’m sorry I ever complained about Sam,”_ Dean snorted, shivering. _“Imagine Sam multiplied by six. It’s too many bitchfaces and bad haircuts to handle.”_

Other phrases were added to Dean’s vocabulary, such as “Can I have directions?”, “How are you today?”, “How much money is this?” and other things that would help him get around in American society, including knowledge of his rights as a resident.

 _“You don’t have as many rights as you would have if you were a full citizen, but that only takes five years and you still have rights as an American resident. So, if someone says you cannot enter due to the fact that you are not an American citizen, you can…_ ”

It didn’t take long for a mask of weariness to overtake Dean’s features, and one glance at the clock had Cas scrambling to rise from his seat, cursing to himself.

_“It’s terribly late. I’m so sorry.”_

_“That’s okay. I’m not five; I can stay up past eight o’clock.”_

“ _Yes, but it’s almost one in the morning!”_

“ _Hey, don’t sweat it, Cas._ ” At Castiel’s astonished expression, he chewed on his lip, and Castiel’s eyes flitted to the movement. “ _I can call you Cas, right?_ ”

Startled, Cas simply said, “ _Yes. Of course. Absolutely._ ”

He would’ve laughed at Dean’s flustered expression had he not been equally as flustered. Dean’s expression was so serene in this moment that it almost seemed private, his lashes brushing against his rosy cheeks and his mouth smiling softly as if he’d just thought of something funny.

“I think you’re beautiful,” Cas blurted before he could stop himself.

Dean’s frowned.

“ _What does that mean?_ ”

“ _It’s a version of ‘I’m glad you’re here; I enjoy your company’._ ”

“ _Oh. Well, I’m glad that you’re glad that I’m here._ ”

 _"You have no idea._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I realized that citizenship in the late 1800s was not 14 years; Jefferson pasted the Naturalization Act during his presidency that lowered the number of years it took to be an American citizen.
> 
> I cut out a lot of the excess, sappy, cringey filler from this chapter and fixed the wonky perspective changes so that it flows more smoothly. Please leave a comment and kudos if you like it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): None

**V.**

_“Railroads were the major growth industry, with the factory system, mining, and finance increasing in importance. Immigration from Europe and the eastern states led to the rapid growth of the West…Labor unions became important in the very rapidly growing industrial cities...”_

**-**

 

Samuele Joseph Winchester was going to _destroy_ Castiel Novak.

It wasn’t like the guy had done anything wrong, far from it, but if shoving the politician into the path of a stampeding carriage would somehow make Dean shut the fuck up about him, then Sam would gladly seize the opportunity.

Dean had babbled on and on all night about what he’d learned and how Castiel had taught him, and even though Sam was proud of his brother’s knowledge, he was going to punch someone— preferably Castiel— if he had to go to his first day of work in America with bags under his eyes.

 “ _Dean, we have to look presentable_ ,” he insisted as he dusted himself off, chewing on his lip as he counted the number of patches on his trousers. “ _This could very much affect the rest of our damn lives._ ”

“Let’s…use English, Sammy,” Dean stated as he stood by his brother’s side, clapping his shoulder. “We have to…practice.”

_"No. English sucks. Fuck English.”_

“English is our…new language…now. We…should…” He hesitated, searching his mind for the words before grimacing as he switched to Italian, “ _get used to it._ ”

“ _Well, English isn’t the thing I’m worried about right now.”_

 _“Cas says that the factory bosses exploit us and don’t care what we can do as long as we can hit a button,”_ Dean exclaimed, flopping back on his bed as if he weren’t about to go for his first day at work in an entirely different country. _“Cas told me that we could get paid the same amount as a guy who’s never worked a day in his life.”_

 _“I couldn’t care less what Cas says,”_ Sam snapped, choosing the plain frock coat that Crowley had lent him over the worn overcoat that he’d brought with him from Italy.

_“Hey, Cas is a great guy!”_

_“Yeah, you’ve been saying that for the past several hours.”_

Raising his hands in defeat, Dean hurried to get ready, humming an old Italian ballad to himself as he did so. It was one of their Padre’s favorites.

Sam’s face softened when Dean turned away, pride blooming in his chest; his brother hadn’t even been in America for two full days and he already knew a decent amount of English.

Of course, Sam had pictured himself and Dean sitting across from each other while he taught Dean the language, but the jealously in his heart was completely eclipsed by his relief. Then again, there could be a catch to Castiel’s lessons, a catch that would cost him and Dean dearly, but he tried to ignore that fact.

When Dean was finally ready, the two whisked out of their tenement and down the hallway.

“Good luck,” Ellen said with a nod when they passed her and Jo, their arms full of textiles that they utilized for their lucrative clothing business. “Don’t let Alastair push you around.”

“We…won’t,” Dean assured her haltingly, puffing out his chest at her expression of shocked astonishment as he and Sam rushed to the lobby and out the door.

Side by side, the brothers trekked down the road and toward the address that Castiel had written on the paper. The factory they were to work at was a prominent carriage manufacturer, and Sam found that the details about the job itself were vague to say the least.

Sam used the incredible sights of New York to distract him from his worries, grinning as he regarded the wonderful and lively streets. Though a little dirty, New York was by far the biggest mixing pot he’d ever had the privilege of encountering in his life; so many languages buzzed in the air and so many skin colors flashed by that Sam feared he’d have a complex.

Dean, of course, was ogling the buildings like he’d just walked through the gates of Heaven, and whistled lowly whenever a merchant’s wagon rattled past. It wasn’t the merchandise he was impressed with, though, it was the damn teams of horses that pulled them.

“ _Whoa,_ ” Dean breathed as a broad-chested Clydesdale paraded past, its horseshoe-clad hooves clanging against the cobbles as it pulled a wagon brimming with bags of flour. “ _She’s a beauty isn’t she?_ ”

 Dean of course, didn’t care that the Clydesdale was covered from head to toe in dirt and that her mane and tail were matted beyond belief, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“ _Yeah. Whatever,_ ” he snorted.

 _“You have no taste,”_ Dean huffed, folding his arms over his chest. 

-Җ-

 

_"Man, Padre had this gorgeous, midnight black Friesian. God, she was beautiful, at least seventeen hands high,” Dean indicated the height animatedly, though he had to stand on his tippy-toes. “Must’ve cost him a fortune. Anyway, her name was Impala.”_

_“Impala?” Sam scoffed, downing his seventh shot of the night._

_His drinking was starting to become a bit excessive, and he told himself that he’d take a break tomorrow, though he’d been saying that for the past week now._

_He didn’t usually pay attention to Dean, wearing his cheesy bartender clothes as he wiped down the counter and washed the glasses, but he was always in for a good story about the time before their life had gone to hell._

_“Yeah. Pretty sure it’s an animal in Afri-something. That continent. Padre told me that impalas were so fast they could outrun cheetahs.” Dean was getting himself worked up now, his face glowing as he scrubbed the counter with renewed vigor._

_“I find that hard to believe.”_

_His throat burned as he downed the final shot, frowning when a line of empty glasses greeted him. Dean certainly wouldn’t serve him more, calling the English drinks Sam preferred “demon’s blood.”_

_“Me, too. But Padre said it, so of course I kinda grew up believing it.” Dean’s expression was almost wistful. “The shed was actually her stall once.”_

_“That’s why it always smells like horse in there.”_

_Dean nodded, smiling to himself. “She was almost too big to fit, but we took her out often enough to make sure that she was able to stretch her legs. She was a free spirit; always jumped the fence and bucked Padre off once a week. In play, really.”_

_“Did she ever buck you?”_

_“No, never, and if I hadn’t seen her act up around Padre I’d think she was just a good old sap.” He drummed his fingers on the counter, running his hand through his hair. “Pap taught me to ride on her; how to hold the reigns, sit in the saddle, and dismount without losing my balance. She was as fast as a bolt of lightning and it was a wonder why Padre didn’t race her. Instead, he used her to carry his blacksmith supplies back and forth from the shop. She was my best friend for a while, Sammy.”_

_Sam scoffed at the childish nickname, but Dean ignored him and pushed on,_ _“When we’d let her out of graze I’d sometimes climb on her back and just sit there while she ate. She didn’t mind.”_

_Dean hesitated at the bitterness in his words, his lips pursing into a thin line._

_“Sometimes I’d fall asleep on her back and Madre would have to go out and get me so I didn’t miss supper. We kept her for a while after Madre died, because even though Pap had become a heartless asshole, he still couldn’t give her up.”_

_Dean blinked hard, wiping a stray tear that had slipped out of the corner of his eye, and Sam had had just about enough._

_He’d wanted to hear something happy, and now that the story had took a turn for the worst, he just wanted more shots to wipe the memories away._

_“Pretty soon we had to sell her. I was the one that had to take her to town and watch as some bastard led her away. I got good money for her though, and the man I’d sold her to happened to be one of Padre’s old friends. Bobby, his name was. She probably lived a good life.”_

_To say that Dean was inconsolable for the rest of the night would be an understatement._

           

-Җ-

 

“ _Earth to Samuele! You in there?_ ” Dean elbowed Sam in the ribs, effectively jolting him out of his reveries.

 _“Stop that, jerk,”_ Sam grumbled, shoving his brother away and rubbing the sore spot, but his irritation had no potency to it. _“What was that all about?”_

_“Um…are you blind?”_

He gestured vigorously to the huge factory looming before them, a monstrosity of concrete and metal that glared down at them with cracked, dirtied windows. A pristine sign claimed that this was the brothers’ destination.

Sam and Dean exchanged looks, and Sam found that his brother looked no better than he felt, his face taking on a deathly pallor and his hands balled into fists at his side.

The building’s unwelcoming appearance only made the situation all the more stressing, and from inside there could be heard a great cacophony, like metal grinding and wheels churning.

Sweat beaded on Sam’s brow and he found that his palms fared no better despite the bitter cold of the December morning. Having his brother at/ his side calmed him down somewhat, but Dean was just as nervous as he was, shifting from foot to foot like he was balancing on hot coals.

The work day was just beginning, gruff voices and coarse shouts rising above the clatter and screech of machinery, and Sam composed himself as best as he could before pushing open the doors and stepping inside.

The doors groaned as if in warning before they slammed shut, making Dean jump, and no sooner did that happen did a mass of men, all clad in the same uniform, hustled in behind them. They all had dirty-streaked faces and grimy hands with chipped fingernails, and their clothes were no better, baggy and just as filthy as the wearers themselves.

Dean tugged on his arm, ripping his gaze away from the workers, and he turned to come face to face with who he could only assume was Alastair. His new boss.

The man was middle-aged, but in no way was he frail. His salt-and-pepper hair matched his neatly tripped beard, and Sam was pretty sure that his cufflinks alone could supply him and Dean with gourmet breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a whole month.

He grinned toothily, and even though his eyes were not pits, they were still chillingly cold as he assessed them with a look that a lion would normally give to a particularly plump pair of zebra.

“I suppose you are the two Italians that Castiel had informed me of?” he asked, and his voice sounded no warmer than his eyes looked.

Sam found himself unable to speak, so he nodded.

“And he also informed me that this one,” He gestured to Dean, who tensed, " doesn’t speak English.”

“I…can speak…some Eeenglish,” his older brother insisted, his jaw set with determination, and Sam would be lying if he said he wasn’t proud of his brother for being able to understand, much less reply.

Dean’s face had that expression that he knew all too well. It was the one that he wore when he was gambling for the tickets; he’d do anything to get his way and make it right.

“Very good,” Alistair replied smoothly, and then turned, gesturing for the two brothers to follow, which they did grudgingly.

Many men milled past, most looking like immigrants, and Sam’s brows knit together.

These laborers were filthy beyond compare, and none of them looked very healthy or clean, for that matter. Their expressions were haggard and weary, the expressions of people who were barely scraping by, and a seedling of anxiety rooted itself into Sam’s brain, its roots branching out further the longer he stayed here.

“Look,” Dean pointed to the rows of carriages lined up on their left, ready to be painted.

Complex mechanisms surrounded them, smoke-belching machines that Sam couldn’t’ve imagined even in his wildest dreams, and row after row of conveyer belts crawled along the floor lazily, transporting unfinished carriages to the next station of assembly.

Alastair stopped them in front of a row of hooks on the wall, giving them a quick-once over before selecting two uniforms that’d been placed on opposite ends of the rack. He gave the larger one was given to Sam and the smaller to Dean, but even at first glance Sam was sure that his uniform wouldn’t fit.

It was just too small, even though it was the biggest size they had, and being the height he was, Sam was unsure why he’d expected any different.

“Okay, here’s my boy Tom that’ll show you two the ropes after you get changed,” Alastair stated, pulling over the first worker that happened to walk by.

 Tom grinned and extended his hand, which Sam shook, though hesitantly.

“I think you’ll like it here,” Tom declared, and Sam was keen to note the undertone of sarcasm.

 

-Җ-

 

“ _Worst. Job._ Ever,” Dean snarled as he barreled down the street, ignoring how he almost trampled a woman and paperboy in the process.

He was still in Alastair’s filthy uniform, and he hated it more than anything in the world.

Sam was struggling to keep up with his adrenaline-fueled gait, and he stiffened when a very nice-looking Palomino horse trotted past and Dean didn’t even bat an eyelash.

“ _Dean, it’s not that bad_ ,” Sam said, attempting to console him, but he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

Dean halted, his brother nearly colliding with him at the sudden stop, and whirled around as his building anger exploded into a full-on fury.

“ _Not that bad?!_ ” he bellowed, and a handful of passersby stopped and stared. “ _For nine dollars and six cents a_ week, _and a twelve-hour work day, it’s pretty bad!_ _How are we going to pay rent? Our combined salaries won’t be able to pay that off!_ ”

“ _Dean, we’ll work it out_ ,” Sam ground out through clenched teeth.

It was clear that Dean’s anger was working him up, and for the first time since his feet touched American soil, Dean was beginning to have true and wholehearted doubts.

He knew that Sam had lied when he said that it wasn’t that bad. It _was_ that bad.

The working conditions were filthy, the equipment they had to operate was practically slathered in grime, and the “job” was so repetitive it was more like a small chore that he had to do over and over again.

Alastair had tasked Dean with pushing a button that made a machine shape the doors of the carriage.

It was mesmerizing at first, seeing such an advanced machine take a piece of wood and carve it into the shape of a door, but he got sick of it real fast when he had to watch it over and over again.

It didn’t help that Dean’s fingers were throbbing from twelve hours’ worth of pressing a button, and because he wasn’t allowed to occupy himself with any other things, he’d experimented with pushing it with all different parts of his body. That was short-lived, though, considering how he was pretty sure one guy caught him hitting the button with his crotch.

He didn’t regret it for a second.

Sam had been much more fortunate in the job department, and that was the application of the wheels. The wheels themselves were already machine-made, but apparently the technological geniuses of America were unable to figure out how to craft a machine that actually put them on the vehicle.

And Dean knew that Sam was praying to whoever was listening that they didn’t find out until after he was long dead, because he did _not_ want to be stuck on button duty. Sam could, however, now probably put a wheel on a carriage blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back while the carriage was raised on a platform six feet in the air.

“ _My week is hereby ruined,_ ” Dean mumbled, crossing his arms.

It was eight o’clock in the evening, and Dean was feeling the pull of exhaustion on his bones as they neared the stoop of their tenement building. He was surprised, however, to find Gabriel standing there waiting, a slip of paper clutched in one hand.

He perked up when he saw the Winchesters nearing.

“Well, well, well,” he said with bravado as soon as they were within earshot. “If it isn’t Lockwood and Nelly Dean. Whatcha up to?”

“ _I don’t understand that reference,”_ Dean grumbled, but Sam grinned from ear to ear, the nerd side of him lighting up after so many months of being formant.

“Why, we’re talking about Catherine, of course,” he replied and halted at the foot of the stairs.

Even with the boosted height, Gabriel still wasn’t as tall as the younger Winchester.

“You,” the landlord jabbed a finger at him. “I like you.”

They both laughed and Dean bristled. He hated not knowing what was going on. Not knowing what was going on meant he wasn’t in control of things.

 Gabriel chuckled a bit more and handed Dean the slip of paper he’d been holding.

Surprised, Dean took it and thanked him, praying to God that it wasn’t a bill for rent. His grimy hands left an unsightly smear on the crisp white paper, but the writing on it was still eligible.

           

**WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM**

**_Dean T. Winchester =_ **

**_66 East 12 th Street New York, NY =_ **

 

            _Hello, Dean. Wondering if you would like to come back and study some more tonight. Same place + same time. Italian translation on bottom if you can’t read this one. =_

_**Castiel J. Novak=**_

Sam read over Dean’s shoulder and his eyebrows climbed to his hairline. He opened his mouth to translate it despite the Italian on the bottom, but Dean stopped him.

“No. I can read,” he insisted.

Those words were his best yet, in his opinion. There was no hesitation and no tripping over syllables.

The reading part, though, was tricky. Despite how all of his syllables correct and he made sure that he didn’t stutter, he still had to point to some words to Sam, including ‘wondering,’ ‘tonight,’ and, ironically, ‘translation.’

When he finally processed what the letter was saying, he turned to Sam like a child asking for permission from his parents. “Can I?”

“Whatever I say, you’re still going to do it,” Sam snorted and Gabriel chuckled in the background.

After processing it, Dean snorted, “Yep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and kudos if you liked it!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): Xenophobia, Slurs

**VI.**

_“_ _The political landscape was notable in that despite some corruption, turnout was very high and national elections saw two evenly matched parties. The dominant issues were cultural (especially regarding prohibition, education, and ethnic or racial groups) and economic (tariffs and money supply).”_

**-**

Castiel was waiting for him in front of Tammany Hall, standing in a pool of light cast by a nearby lamp. His features were outlined in gold, and it made him look like some sort of trenchcoated angel.

Dean managed to refrain from skipping over to him like some sort of child, but his heartbeat sure did skip. He hoped that the redness creeping into his cheeks was light enough to be mistaken for cold.

Leaning into the wind, he quickened his pace, checking both ways to make sure a carriage didn’t run him over before hustling across the street and coming to stand by the ward boss’ side.

 “Hey, Cas,” Dean managed through chattering teeth as he rubbed his arms to keep warm, fingers turning pink from the cold.

Castiel frowned when he noticed that Dean had no gloves to speak of and no hat to cover his head, but he thankfully didn’t comment.

What was Dean supposed to say if Castiel asked why he was only wearing a coat in this December weather? That he was poor as all fuck and couldn’t afford another one, since the cheap bowler hat and crappy fingerless gloves were with his brother just in case he needed them?

“I was wondering…” Castiel began, his gaze everywhere but meeting Dean’s own, and he wrung his hands (which were covered by expensive-looking gloves) behind his back. “Would you want to take these…err…study sessions to my home?”

It took a moment for Dean to process the words, but when he did, his mouth fell open.

“For real?” he asked, and Castiel seemed to mistake that for incredulity, struggling to cover for himself.

“It was a very foolish idea, I apologize—”

Dean clapped a hand on Castiel’s shoulder before he could finish, smiling softly. “S’okay, Cas. I would...like…to.” His hand lingered for a second too long before he quickly snatched it back to his side. “If you’ll have me.”

Castiel’s face lit up. “Of course! You’ll probably have to stay overnight at this late of an hour, though. My home is on Long Island.”

“Can you send a telegram to Sam about it and get me home before work starts?”

“Indeed.”

“Then sure.”

 _This is all happening so fast. Slow down a bit, tiger,_ a voice in his head chided. _And this is a mistake! You barely even know this guy! He could murder you or sell you off into slavery!_

Dean worried on his lip, but he didn’t take back what he had said. Fantasies of canopied beds with amazing cashmere mattresses and pillows stuffed with feathers floated to the forefront of his mind, and his back groaned at the thought of sleeping another night on the lumpy mattress back at his tenement.

He knew it probably wasn’t the best idea, but Cas was offering and it wasn’t like he could back out now. Besides, it was already late; they wouldn’t be up for too long, would they? They’d just study for an hour or two and then be off to bed.

“Great, one moment please.” Castiel disappeared back inside Tammany Hall for a few minutes, leaving Dean to loiter around awkwardly before he reappeared, grinning. “Follow me.”

And with that he was off, leaving Dean scrambling to catch up. Despite Castiel’s considerably smaller stride, his pace was brisk, leaving Dean with no room to strike up conversation as he focused all of his effort on making sure that he didn’t slip on ice and kill himself.

 It was obvious that Castiel knew New York City like the back of his hand, and Dean couldn’t help but feel awed at the way the man took turns without second-guessing himself, pointed out landmarks without even having to look at them first, and led them faultlessly into the heart of the giant metropolis.

Even at this late hour, there were people milling this way and that, vendors hawking their wares, and dozens and dozens of wagons and cabs thundering along the cobblestone roads.

Castiel kept glancing back at him, seeming to take pride in the way dean was Dean marveling at the wonders of the city.

His hometown in Italy had been so much more different, so much…simpler.

In Naples, everyone knew everyone. The community was so tightly knit that, even if he didn’t know everyone’s name, he certainly could remember the face. They all went to mass together on Sunday and went to the beach every Thursday night in August.

But it was easy to get lost in the sea of people in New York. Everyone that passed was a stranger. There were no polite smiles or greetings; the best form of acknowledgement was no acknowledgement at all, which Dean soon found out for himself as people whistled and leered at Castiel as he passed.

One of them even spat on the ground right in front of him, but Castiel kept his head bowed and his brows creased in determination, not even acknowledging the people who were accosting him.

“Ay, whaddaya know?” jeered a burly man whose teeth were so stained from chewing tobacco that they looked like shriveled carrots. “It’sa aristocrat! ‘E should get an award fer venturing outta his estate!”

He and the other brutes around him broke out into raucous laughter despite the joke not even being remotely funny, and Castiel said nothing, speeding his step, but the drunkards leapt off of the barrels they were lounging on and followed them like a swarm of pesky flies.

The man caught sight of Dean, and with his incredibly tanned skin from the long summers and obvious cut of his jaw, there was no doubt he was Italian.

“Lookie here!” he rumbled, sidling up to Dean like a serpent. He smelled like he hadn’t bathed in weeks, and Dean pursed his lips to keep himself from saying something he shouldn’t.  
“The ward boss got hiself a ginzo tramp s’well!”

There was a collective roar of glee, and Dean balled his hands into fists, his eyes narrowing. Though he could hardly understand most of what the man was saying, he sure as hell knew the word “ginzo.” The British sailors used to taunt him when he was a child, calling him terrible names and making fun of his tanned complexion.

Castiel lay a warning hand on his shoulder and steered him away before things could escalate They continued on, leaving the men howling and calling out slurs and insults.

“Why…do you let them…walk…all over you?” Dean demanded haltingly, unable to stutter out a full sentence in his fury, his jaw clenching in frustration. “Why do you…let…it…happen?”

He grabbed Castiel’s arm and pulled him to a stop. He looked tired, and it made him seen ten times older than he actually was. Dean wanted nothing more than to take his thumb and smooth out the worry lines etched into his face, but he stuffed his hands into his pockets instead.

“It’s better that way,” Castiel replied wearily, and Dean wondered if he should call the night off so the poor man could get some actual sleep. Then again, he hadn’t been paying attention to the twists and turns of the city, and was hopelessly lost without Castiel to guide him.

“What?”

“Congress is shifting, what with Rutherford B. Hayes as President-Elect. He’s cunning and is a man of honor and truth, which is bad news for a ward boss like me.”

He sighs, and Dean pretends to understand who Rutherford B. Hayes is and what a President-Elect is.

“I don’t even know how long I’ll be in office for.”

“What do you mean?” Dean demanded, planting his hands on his hips. “You have every single person you’ve helped voting for you in the next election like they promised.”

Castiel’s expression darkened even further, and it didn’t take long for Dean to figure out  that those were the wrong words to say.

“That’s the thing, Dean. With Congress less focused on building the South back up from the war, they’ll notice the corruption of Tammany Hall. That’s what the entire system is: corruption.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dean, it is _illegal_ to exchange favors for votes, and the country has been in such disarray that that’s the last problem that they need to address. Progressives are attacking us politicians. They are lashing out to change the system, and if they have their way, which they will, I’ll lose my job. It won’t be devastating to get another of the same pay, but if they get the income tax they want I won’t be able to afford my estate anymore.”

Dean swore that he muttered under his breath about not even wanting it in the first place, though the words were lost to the wind.

“Then stop…doing that...illegal thing. Once people see…how good you are, they’ll vote for you.”

“I’m glad that I have a truly loyal follower who would vote for me even if I hadn’t given them a place in America,” Castiel sighs. “But I’m too weak. My competitors would slaughter me in an election if I didn’t have the leverage that I have; my real views are unappealing in today’s political landscape, and the views that I make up are almost identical to my competitor’s. Even if I have money, I don’t have enough to do the things that the voters want.”

Dean opened his mouth but found that there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, so he just gave Castiel a reassuring pat on the back as they continued farther into the city.

“Now look here, Dean,” Castiel announced, brushing off the remains of the last conversation as the old mirth in his eyes returning. “Here is how you do a proper New York City cab whistle.”

“A what now?” the immigrant scoffed as his companion shucked off one of his gloves.

Castiel placed two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing shriek of a whistle, so loud that Dean actually jumped.

He didn’t stay startled for long, his eyes widening as a gorgeous chestnut mare cantered to the sidewalk, halting just as fast as she’d come. For a moment he just marveled at her slender, lithe form and the way her muscles rippled under her coat.

Castiel had to drag him into the cab to get him to stop staring. It didn’t have two seats facing each other, so they had to settle for a side-by-side trip.

“Where you headed, sirs?”

“One hundred twenty-seven Seraph Avenue, please,” Castiel told him.

“M’sorry, sir, but this here cab don’t go off-island,” the cabbie deadpanned. “Janice here ain’t as young as she used to be an’ is’hard for her to travel such far distances. I would take ya, I would; ya helped my sistah who came from Greece, bu’ Janice can’t.”

“Would you like it if I gave you boarding so you and Janice can rest for the night in my stables? We’ll be riding back as well, and I’ll tip you for all the extra money you would’ve gotten.”

Dean turned to him, his eyebrows raised; such a long cab ride would cost a fortune, and the fact that the cabbie was going to stay at Castiel’s house and drive them back added up to a dizzying amount of money that Dean sure as hell knew he wouldn’t be able to afford. Why was he letting Cas spend so much money for a trip like this?

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it. It’s nothing,” Castiel snorted but then once again frowned at Dean’s hands, which were clenched into fists in order to keep his fingers warm. His ears, nose, and cheeks were rosy from the cold. “Take my gloves.”

“For real?” Dean asked, awed as the silken, very, very expensive white gloves were placed into his open palms.

He’d never _touched_ something that was so luxurious, much less worn them, and he held the gloves as if they were the crown jewels.

“You can’t keep them,” Castiel stated, and Dean’s face flushed with embarrassment. “These are my favorite gloves. You can, however, borrow them. You’ll look a little foolish, but at least you’ll be warm.”

The immigrant muttered thanks in both English and Italian and slipped them on. They were a little small on him, but the insides were padded with fur that must’ve been mink or something because God these were the best gloves ever. Castiel laughed at his expression and the cabbie clucked to Janice, who took off at a brisk trot, the cab clunking along behind.

Needless to say, the cobbles of New York City weren’t necessarily the smoothest surfaces, and the cab flounced and jumped and jarred every step of the way. This caused the two passengers to flounce and jump and jar as well, and with nothing to hold them in place, there were some awkward collisions.

The first time was by far the least memorable, just a little jolt that sent their bodies smacking together. After muttered apologies they lapsed back into comfortable silence for a block or two.

Conversation eventually ensued, and Castiel began to teach Dean more English words that he didn’t know, as well as the phonetics and other things that would send any non-speaker reeling with confusion. It made Dean wonder why there were even rules in the first place, considering all of the exceptions.

“I before E except after C” his ass.

Then the cab hit a pothole, and at that exact moment Dean turned to face Castiel and their faces crashed together. They held it for a moment longer than necessary, their lips locked together as Dean’s pulse soared into the stratosphere, but then the two of them realized what was going on and leapt apart to opposite sides of the carriage. Spluttering and flushing colors that were usually reserved for tomatoes, Dean’s mind reeled and stumbled along to process what just happened.

“I’m so sorry, it just happened—”

“I apologize for my misconduct—”

It went on like that for a while, the two struggling to form coherent sentences and speaking over each other. They would pause at the same time to allow the other to speak first, but then when they saw that they were waiting for them they both began to talk at the same time once more, and the vicious cycle went on and on and on.

Over the bridge to Long Island they were still awkwardly trying to uphold conversation, and the cab stopped only once to water Janice and let her have a short rest.

During that time, Castiel explained, “I do have a…small fortune, Dean, and I don’t really have many neighbors. My siblings are distant and my family is a bit unstable, so please come to the Hall and tell me if you’d like to visit. Sam is welcome as well.”

Dean nodded, still a bit rattled from the collision, but on the inside his stomach was doing summersaults; anything was better than his and Sam’s cruddy tenement, so what better way to get away from it all than hanging around with Cas and learning new things?

Finally, after what seemed like hours of awkwardness between them, the carriage rounded the bend and onto Seraph Avenue, where Dean couldn’t help but let his jaw drop.

Castiel had no neighbors because his house was the _only_ house on the avenue.

“Small fortune” had to be the biggest understatement of the year, and the cabbie actually took off his glasses, swabbed them with his jacket, and then put them on again just in case he was seeing things.

A wrought-iron fence stood at least ten feet high before them, with spikes lining the top that gleamed in the moonlight. The gate itself was meticulously crafted to show angels wielding swords, almost like guardians blocking the path of intruders.

Beyond lay rolling hills and towering sycamores, all barren as winter held the land at an icy standstill. The grass was pale and needed watering, turning brittle with the wintertime winds, but Dean could imagine the nearly endless swathes of lush green in the spring and summer.

The cabbie, after overcoming his shock, took the key that Castiel handed to him and leapt off of the seat, hustling over to unlock the gates.

The angels watched coldly, and Dean didn’t blame the driver’s jittery movements as he pushed the giant gateway open and led Janice and the cab all the way through, leaving it once more to go and lock the gate behind him.

Then they were back on track, and it was obvious that the neatly paved stone bricks of Castiel’s walkway were much smoother and more comfortable to travel on than the uneven cobbles. Tension still hung thick in the air from their accidentally intimate…encounter with one another, and Dean was glad to get out of the small, clunking machine as they pulled up to the front of the house.

Castiel gave the cabbie directions to the stables and uttered a code word that would let the stable boy know that he’d come here with Castiel, and then Janice was trotting off, looking weary but relieved that she finally got a rest.

When the cab pulled away, Dean finally got a good look of the house, and he swallowed hard.

It was modeled off of Greek architecture, with a row of beautifully polished columns supporting a triangular roof. Even from a distance Dean could see the Novak family crest emblazoned upon the roof; two angels flanking a shield that had an eagle etched into it.

He actually had a hard time catching his breath, and Castiel stood by politely as he took in the scenery. The carriage drop-off was a ways from the actual estate, and a winding path led through a small stretch of woods and a courtyard before it actually reached the front door of the house.

Luckily, Castiel informed him that farther down the path that he’d set the cabbie on was one that led directly to the front of the house, just in case there was an emergency or simply lack of desire to walk all the way.

Despite the fact that it was midwinter and freezing, on top of how all of the flora was nonexistent, hibernating in wait of spring, Dean still found it beautiful.

Castiel gestured for him to follow and they began the trek towards the house. Dean was a bit stiff from sitting in one place for a long time, not to mention how his ass hurt from all of the bouncing that it was subjected to, but he forgot all about that as he watched the scenery go slowly past.

There was silence for a long count, a serene form of quiet that was filled just with the tittering of cardinals and the occasional call of a fox; however, when Castiel broke it Dean didn’t mind in the slightest.

“Do you mind if my dogs join us?” he asked. “They make me feel safer, though they’re a little mistrusting of strangers.”

“I’ve never been…good…with dogs, but if they’re…nice…that’s fine with me,” Dean replied.

As long as they weren’t _his_ dogs, he liked them. He didn’t see why owning a dog would be in any way desirable, but he liked other people’s pets.

Castiel gave another one of his “New York City Cab” whistles that rolled across the landscape like some sort of bird call.

The two waited, at a standstill, and Dean thought it would be really funny if they never showed up; he found that he liked seeing Cas flushed and embarrassed, but at the same time didn’t want the politician to feel self-conscious.

He nearly leapt out of his skin when two tawny blurs leapt from the underbrush right next to him, and he reeled back as two gigantic dogs bounded over to Castiel and leapt up, pawing the air as they barked excitedly, jumping up on him and circling around. Dean frowned when he thought of how much dog fur must’ve gotten on the poor man’s expensive suit.

“Dean, meet Achilles and Brutus,” Castiel introduced the two huge dogs in turn, and Dean found that they were indistinguishable except for the fact that Brutus had a long scar down his face, rendering his left eye a milky white, and Achilles looked much older than his partner.

Neither of them wore collars.

 The two, suddenly alert of the new presence, growled menacingly at Dean, though Castiel smacked them both on the flank and they stopped immediately, though they did cast wary glances in the immigrant’s direction.

“They’ll warm up to you soon enough,” Cas assured him, and Dean swallowed hard as he caught a glimpse of Achilles’ sharp fangs; these dogs were trained to kill intruders, which explains why they were loose on the property and not inside the house.

“What…breed…are they?” he asked, because even though he could tell a horse’s breed just by the sound off their hooves on stone, he didn’t know jack shit about dogs.

“Rhodesian Ridgebacks,” Castiel replied, grinning. “I took them lion hunting with me on my trip to Africa.”

“Lion?” the immigrant asked.

“ _Leone_ ,” Castiel replied, and Dean’s eyes went wide.

“You…took…them _lion hunting_?” he asked incredulously.

“It’s what they were bred for,” the politician replied, laughing as Dean eyed the dogs warily.

If they could take down lions no problem, they certainly wouldn’t have a problem with chasing Dean down and ripping his throat out. He decided that it was a good thing that he and Castiel were friends.

And so on they walked towards the house, the dogs bounding alongside them, falling back to sniff something or racing forwards to check out a suspicious leaf.

For a moment, Dean imagined what it would be like for this to be his house. Would he be dressed up in a fancy suit like Cas? Would he have all the money in the world to pay cab drivers to take him wherever he wanted? Would he be able to help people settle down into an amazing new life in America?

Sam would be with him, probably with his own study in Dean’s gigantic house so that he can educate himself in law and become a lawyer like he’d always dreamed of doing. Imagining Sam dressed finely, with a clean face and a full stomach, made his heart twist a little.

With this much money, Dean would surely have this house moved to the Neapolitan countryside, where the winters weren’t as bitter and the landscape wasn’t as dreary, and that the Rhodesian Ridgebacks were his dogs to command and go lion hunting with.

He imagined his mom and his dad living here too, alive and well, and his lips curled bitterly. The life of the man he was conjuring up in his head was ten thousand times better than the shit-show he was living right now.

His eyes slid to Castiel, who was playing fetch with the dogs as he walked.

_Not a complete shit-show, then._

And suddenly his fantasies of _“my house”_ and _“my dogs”_ were replaced with _“our house”_ and _“our dogs.”_

He froze and quickly shook his head clear before the thought could take root, but not before he reminisced about the smash of Castiel’s lips on his own in the cab, the phantom feeling making his mouth tingle.

Little did he know that Castiel, who looked deep in thought, was actually thinking of the same things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long update! I've been working on other things and put this story on the backburner for a little while.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII.**

_“Unions crusaded for the 8-hour working day and the abolition of child labor; middle class reformers demanded civil service reform, prohibition of liquor and beer, and women's suffrage. Local governments across the North and West built public schools chiefly at the elementary level; public high schools started to emerge…”_

\----Ӝ----

 

Castiel wished he could frame the shocked expression on Dean’s face when Balthazar asked to take his coat.

He didn’t seem to know what to do, standing awkwardly with his coat clutched in both hands, but eventually followed Castiel’s lead and gave it to Balthazar.

“What’s are you…going to do…with it?” Dean asked, his English halting and stammered in his nervousness.

“I’m going to eat it,” Balthazar said in straight deadpan, and Dean’s eyes widened at the same time Castiel’s narrowed.

They’d spoken about Balthazar’s mouthiness before; ever since he’d dropped the f-bomb when Castiel was entertaining some foreign aristocrats from the Ottoman Empire—luckily, they had been engaging conversation strictly in Bulgarian—Castiel had been stern about Balthazar’s overall rude and snobbish demeanor, even threatening to half his wages.

But Balthazar was a true Brit in heart and soul, and he made up for his forced politeness around guests through the merciless verbal abuse when Castiel was alone.

Although his words could sting sometimes, Castiel was indebted to Balthazar; he’d been his chaperone and employee since he was eight years old, and without him, he’d be a snobbish grandee who couldn’t take a joke or an insult.

“He’s not going to eat it, he’s going to hang it up.” Castiel made a ‘get to it’ gesture and Balthazar whisked away, though not before casting a sly look over his shoulder.

“I could have…done that…myself.”

“It’s not a matter of being able to do it; it’s a matter of whether you _want_ to do it.”

Dean’s brows furrowed as he frowned, but he didn’t argue as Castiel put a hand on his shoulder and steered him away from the entrance hall.

Dean seemed intrigued by just about everything, ogling the marble floors and staircases and running his hands over the quartz columns. He was especially astounded by all of the trinkets and knick-knacks that Castiel had brought back with him from his expeditions overseas, and though it looked like he was brimming with questions, he didn’t ask any of them.

 _He’s probably never even had a glimpse of aristocracy before,_ Castiel thought as Dean’s mouth dropped open at the craftsmanship of a ship in a bottle he’d gotten from the Netherlands, _much less ventured into the house of someone with such wealth._

 Castiel felt almost self-conscious about it, and he worried at his lower lip. Here was Dean, a poor immigrant who was working ungodly long hours for an ungodly small amount of pay, in his house and taking in the luxury that comes along with making more money in one day than he will make in a whole year.

It was rude of Castiel to bring Dean here, kind of like he was bragging and showing off, and he cursed himself internally. Why had he come up with this idea? Why couldn’t they have just stayed in his office at Tammany Hall?

Dean’s resentment was probably off the charts right now, and he probably hadn’t even wanted to come in the first place, too polite to decline Castiel’s offer.

Then again, he did seem so excited to be here, but Castiel knew that that excitement would probably lead into jealousy the moment he had to go back home to his ramshackle tenement.

“I like…” Dean made a vague gesture toward the gigantic painting hanging before him, his eyes screwing closed, before giving up and saying, “ _I dipinti._ ”

“Paintings,” Castiel told him, and Dean muttered the word under his breath over and over to solidify it into his mind. “Most of them are family heirlooms. _Cimelio di famiglia._ ”

“So your parents…gave them to you?”

Castiel nodded, craning his neck to look up at the priceless scenes of nature and fox hunts that his mother and father thought were cluttering the attic. One of them was an original Thomas Cole. They rounded a corner, and Dean laughed and darted toward the wall, pointing to the portrait above him.

“It’s you!”

The Castiel in the painting glared down at Dean from his seat like Dean had offended him just by existing. Brutus and Achilles flanked him on either side, and his stiff posture and stern face made him seem like he was nothing more than an image on canvas.

On his left was a painting of him and Gabriel sitting primly on their horses when they were teenagers—by God Gabriel looked so much different when he was just serious as everyone else in the family—and on the right was a portrait of his equally stern-faced mother and father.

Castiel used to have way more pictures of himself on the wall, but most of them had been either burned or shoved away into the back corners of the attic in hopes that they would never see the light of day again.

How many portraits did he need of himself? His Uncle Zachariah, who commissioned an artist to paint Castiel every year for Christmas, certainly didn’t think there was a limit to that sort of thing.

He steered Dean past the living room, almost leaping straight out of his skin when Dean stopped in his tracks and gasped, pointing at the tiger-skin rug by the fireplace, “Is that a…a…”

“Tiger. _Tigre_.”

“Tiger?!” Dean gave a small bounce, looking on the verge of leaping around like a newborn cold, and he ogled at the tiger’s amber eyes and vicious snarl.

The other servants, upon Castiel’s arrival, had set blazing fires in the hearth, and Dean seemed enchanted by its twirling and dancing as he treaded lightly over the carpet and sat himself down on the floor in front of the fireplace without any regard for proper manners.

A fondness brewed in his heart as he watched Dean watch the logs crackle and pop.

Castiel couldn’t help but compare Dean himself to the flames he seemed so infatuated with. He was brash and blustery at times, stubborn to a fault and burning up everything he touched, but he also could be warm and gentle, lighting up every home he stepped into.

            Despite his big talk and tough exterior, he was still the same man who’d protested when Castiel had told him that Brutus and Achilles had had to stay outside.

The same man who had asked about every single single plaque in the courtyard and all the furniture in the house.

The same man who muttered bitterly under his breath, “ _Vorrei poter aver dato Sam tutto questo_ ” when he thought Castiel couldn’t hear.

_I wish I could’ve given Sam all this._

They eventually made their way to the library, and Dean’s mouth unhinged as stretched his neck to get a good look at the thirty-foot bookcases crammed with every single volume and tome that Castiel had been able to get his hands on.

The library was by far the largest room in the house, standing proudly in the west wing, and its rustic appearance would appeal to just about anyone, no matter their walk of life. The oil lamps in the chandelier burned brightly, casting a warm blow upon everything they touched. It was too dark to read by, and there were several other candlesticks scattered around to make up for it.

The dimness and the abundance of dark wood created a cozy, cabin-like atmosphere that was unlike anything else in the house. It was the room that most reflected who Castiel really was, very much unlike the gold and marble palace that contributed to the rest of the mansion.

Paneled wooden walls supported an arched roof that was held up beautifully embellished crossbeams, and a thin, burgundy carpet covered the floor and muffled their footsteps.

There were long ladders on wheels that one could use—under strict supervision, of course—to get the books on the upmost shelves, and many books were lying open to the pages Castiel had left off on.

Most of them were re-reads of his old favorites, like _Wuthering Heights_ and _Robinson Crusoe_ , but there were others that he had yet to finish; _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ and _Moby Dick_ were still dog-eared and unfinished, and he wished he had more time to actually sit down and read them through. 

Dean squinted at them as he tried to decipher what the words meant, his fingers skimming over the words of Mary Shelley’s _Frankenstein_ almost reverently, as if it were the Bible and not a fantastical story.

“Those… _alce_ …are making me…creeped out,” Dean deadpanned, shying away from the two elk busts that flanked the cobbled hearth, which had a set of gargantuan moose antlers mounted on the mantle. “Their eyes…follow me.”

“I’ve gotten used to it,” Castiel stated, staring down one of the elks as if in challenged. “Besides, they’re stuffed. They’ve been dead for at least ten years now.”

Dean nodded, though he still kept his distance and checked over his shoulder now and then, as if the busts would sneak up on him if he wasn’t careful.

            “As you can see, I’m quite the avid reader,” Castiel commented to fill the empty space.

He seated Dean in one of the comfy leather chairs that was in the lounge, right in front of the roaring fire that crackled and sputtered. It was why the library was one of Castiel’s favorite haunts, the cozy feel of it being more home-like than the rest of his house.

The arched windows cast squares of seemingly liquid blue-white light onto the carpet as the moon crept high into the sky, which was spangled with glittering stars and freckled with the occasional wispy cloud.

The warm light of the fire seemed to counter that cool serenity, and Castiel went about lighting candles so there could be more light to study by.

He selected a few of his favorite volumes from the shelf, as well as a thick dictionary, and brought them over to the small coffee table, where Dean was gazing around with eyes so wide with wonder they could’ve belonged to a child.

Dean sneezed.

“God bless you.”

“Thank you,” Dean stated even as he sneezed again.

Castiel’s brows furrowed, but that’s when his two cats came sauntering in from the hall, their tails held high and their matching amber eyes zeroed in on Dean, who sneezed in earnest.

“This is Artemis and Apollo. They’re the head mice catchers around here.”

“You have mice?”

“All houses have mice. Just because mine is bigger doesn’t mean it is immune to vermin.”

“Your cats,” Dean sneezed again, “look like they want to eat me.”

“They can smell fear,” Castiel joked as he shooed the felines away, hoping to relieve Dean from his apparent allergies. “They’ll be back, just so you know.”

“That’s alright. As long as they don’t touch me or anything; I don’t want to wake up covered in hives.”

“Speaking of waking up, your room is on the second floor, next to mine. Feel free to call it quits whenever you’d like, and don’t be afraid to ask any of the servants for help if you get lost.

If he was being honest, Castiel only chose the guest room next to his as Dean’s quarters for the night because he wanted him to be closer. Even more honest, he didn’t even want him in a different room.

He shook that thought clear before it could fester. Dean didn’t need another warm body next to him…Castiel, for example…to be there. Perhaps warm and cuddle him during the cold of the December night because it just so happened that there weren’t enough blankets…

 “I won’t get lost,” Dean insisted and effectively set Castiel back on track. “I’ll just need one of those…” He struggled to find the word and quickly began to flip through the dictionary, so fast that it was a miracle he hadn’t ripped a page already, “maps!”

In his glee he jabbed the word with a crooked finger and Castiel grinned at his triumph. Most would be proud of gained riches or successful work, but not Dean; he was just happy that he found the word ‘map’ in a dictionary.

It humbled and warmed Castiel at the same time as he thought of how Dean was parading around in his worn slacks and shirts with as much dignity as he could muster. _This is what I have, America. It may not be pretty, but it’s all I’ve got._

            It was easier to study now that the sounds of the city weren’t there to distract them, and although Dean’s spelling was horrific, what with Italian being a more phonetically spelled language than English, he was still picking it up at astounding speeds.

“I used to…work at a…bar,” Dean admitted as he shuffled around the dictionary to look for the word _rhythm_ , “There were English sailors that used to come in from time to time. I guess I…stored some of the words.”

Castiel found the answer valid and they continued to study until their backs and necks were cramping from leaning over the tables. Even though Dean insisted that he was awake enough to continue his studies, Castiel saw how his eyes were drooping slightly and called for a break.

They retreated to the living room, where they reclined and exchanged stories about themselves to get to know each other better. Castiel knew he took more delight in learning about Dean than he should; up to that moment, the only things he’d known about Dean’s family were that he had a younger brother, Sam, who’d struggled with drinking, and that his mother and father were dead.

It was a tragic backstory if he’d ever heard one, and Castiel wasn’t surprised when he found that he was speaking much more than Dean, who often responded to one of his questions with a question to divert the conversation back to Castiel’s family and childhood.

“Is there anything you enthuse about? To the point where Sam tells you to quiet or else suffer his wrath?”

Dean didn’t waste a second. “Horses.”

 “Horses,” Castiel parroted, his eyebrows rising. It would explain why the man had taken such an interest in the cabbie’s old horse, Janice. “How come?”

Dean hesitated, and Castiel was about to change the topic when he replied, “My Padre used to have one. A Friesian.”

Castiel whistled lowly, but had to admit he was confused; Friesians were very damn expensive, and he wondered how Dean had become so witheringly poor if his father had been able to afford such an animal.

“What was her name?”

“Impala.”

“Interesting. I can only assume she was a childhood friend?”

“Yes,” Dean sighed, looking at his hands. He was sitting next to Castiel on the plush sofa, which gave a clear view of his face, and he looked a bit pained as he remembered her. “We had to sell her, though. After…what happened.”

The mood grew somber, and Castiel was determined to lighten it.

“You know that I have an entire stable full of horses, right?” he asked.

 Dean looked like he’d had a stroke for a second, his expression going slack with shock, but he recovered quickly. In a tone that clearly stated he was trying to contain his excitement, he stuttered out a soft, “Really?”

“Yes, and my collection includes a Friesian mare who’s at least a month into her pregnancy,” Castiel replied. “Her name is Amara.”

“Amara…what kind of name is that? She sounds like a….like a….prostitute.”

“She is no such thing,” Castiel insisted, though his amusement bleeds through his voice. “Hates me like I’m the Devil himself, though. Refuses to give me a ride even when she’s not carrying a foal.”

“Well then who do you ride?” Dean prompted. “Because nothing, and I mean _nothing_ compares to the smooth gate of a Friesian mare.”

“I have a buckskin Quarter Horse named Lincoln Continental.”

 Dean couldn’t hold in his bark of laughter, which reverberated through his body and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was a beautiful laugh, and Castiel found himself smiling even wider at the sound.

“A Quarter Horse? Cas, you’re not some sort of…peasant like I am,” Dean raised his voice over Castiel’s objection, “You probably have horses that are…worth more than every single…cabbie horse in New York City…combined and you ride a _Quarter Horse?_ ”

“I love those horses dearly, but they remind me how I’m supposed to act like I’m above people when I’m on such expensive creatures,” Castiel stated, officially irritated by how Dean would think of himself in such a way.

“I can see your point, but the name’s a little…creepy, too. Naming a horse after the late President? It’s strange.”

“Quite,” Castiel replied. “But he was my father’s.”

Dean’s mouth snapped shut and he looked guilty, wringing his hands in his lap and avoiding Castiel’s gaze. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need, but perhaps we can go on a ride together when the hour is more favorable.”

Dean brightened a bit at that and nodded, ducking his head sheepishly, “I’d like that.”

Castiel loved how it caused a slight pink to touch his features in the most endearing way. He wished he could run his hand over Dean’s jawline and down his neck until the pink faded away, but knew that that would be most foolish.

“I must return to my quarters, it’s becoming quite late,” Castiel remarked as his shirt collar suddenly felt too tight, eying the clock.

It read that it was one thirty in the morning, and he was beginning to feel the effects of the sleep deprivation. He couldn’t stay up to such hours every day or else he’d be a dead man walking; all the work that he was sure he was going to receive tomorrow was going to pile up and leave him face-down and drooling on very important papers.

“Balthazar will show you to your room.”

As he said this, Balthazar came bustling in, and the three of them ascended the steps to the second floor.

Dean began to sneeze almost immediately, and blamed it on the chill of December, and Castiel was concerned—even the smallest sneeze could mean the deadliest of diseases—until Artemis and Apollo slunk by and slithered around Dean’s feet.

Balthazar warded them off with muttered curses under his breath before showing Castiel and Dean to their respective rooms and retreating.

“Goodnight,” Dean said, one hand on the doorknob and the other picking at the fabric of his shirt. “Thank you for…bringing me here and…letting me stay…the night.”

“Goodnight, Dean. You don’t have to thank me.”

There was a moment of charged silence before they both retreated into their rooms, and Castiel’s heart eased as soon as the lock clicked behind him.

Dean was doing all sorts of things to him, and he wondered whether those things were good or not.

He wondered if Dean felt the same way, but doubted it; Castiel was one among what he could only assume was a handful of people with the same problem, and he was nearly positive that Dean wasn’t a part of that handful of people like Castiel was.

Otherwise, it wouldn’t be an issue at all, but a gift.

Castiel changed into his nightwear and crawled under the silk quilts and comforters, his head resting on the feather stuffed pillow.

He stared into the darkness for a while, just thinking about Dean and how delighted he’d be when they ventured out into the stables, and he soon fell asleep only to dream about green eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and kudos if you liked it! 
> 
> (I have no idea how anyone could ever read the old version of this story; it was an abolsolute MESS)


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